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‘“OF COURSE IT’S TIRESOME, ANNE.’ ’’-Page 29. 


BARCLAY'S DAUGHTER. 



JEAN KATE LUDLUM, 

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Author of “ At Brown’s,” “ The Minister’s Wife,” “ Was He Wise ? ” Etc. 


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NEW YORK : 

The National Temperance Society and Publication House, 

No. 58 READE STREET. 

1893. 


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Copyright, 1893, by 

THE NATIONAL TEMPERANCE SOCIETY AND PUBLICATION 

HOUSE. 


PRESS CF 

EDWARD O. JENKINS' SON; 
NEW YORK. 


CONTENTS 


PAGE 


CHAPTER I. 

Seeds 5 

CHAPTER II. 

Pretty Miss Millard 21 

CHAPTER III. 

Tempted 35 

CHAPTER IV. 

A Softer Heart 57 

CHAPTER V. 

Rocky Formation 78 

CHAPTER VI. 

In the Fields. 91 

CHAPTER VII. 

A Pleasant Visitor 1 1 3 

CHAPTER VIII. 

Neighborly Ministration 125 


( 3 ) 


4 Contents . 

PAGE 

CHAPTER IX. 

Silence 137 

CHAPTER X. 

A New Home 154 

CHAPTER XI. 

An Announcement and Denouncement 164 

CHAPTER XII. 

A New Defender 177 

CHAPTER XIII. 

Conclusive Argument 193 

CHAPTER XIV. 

Loving Deception 209 

CHAPTER XV. 

Through the Snow 224 

CHAPTER XVI. 

In the Balance 245 

CHAPTER XVII. 

Changes 265 

CHAPTER XVIII. 

The Bride’s Return 281 

CHAPTER XIX. 

Other Seed-Growth 297 


BARCLAY’S DAUGHTER. 


CHAPTER I. 

SEEDS. 

“ The little foxes that spoil the vines.’' 

— Song of Solomon . 

“ I tell you that I can’t let you have it, Bar- 
clay ! I’m sorry, but this isn’t my saloon and I 
have to obey orders.” 

The man addressed made a half angry, half 
imbecile gesture of protestation. His weak, 
bloodshot eyes contracted as he stared into the 
bartender’s face. 

“ Millard’s a crank ! ” he said thickly. “ If he 
isn’t here to oblige the public, why does he keep 
a saloon ? Just one glass, Jim ! I won’t peach 
on you, an’ the old man’ll never know ! ” 

The bartender shook his head, shutting his 
lips firmly. He knew from experience that an 
order demanded prompt obedience in that saloon. 

“ No,” he said quietly but impressively, “ not 

( 5 ) 


6 Barclay s Daughter. 

one drop, Barclay ! You had all that’s good for 
you, you know, before you came here, and I’ll 
not be the one to give you more against Mr. 
Millard’s orders.” 

The man clenched his trembling right hand 
upon the bar, and his eyes flashed wickedly as 
he steadied himself and attempted to stand erect, 
disclaiming the previous use of liquor. 

“ I ain’t had a drop to-night — not one drop ! ” 
he said with pathetic emphasis, swaying as he 
was from the effects of more than even one glass. 
“ But if I’d had a hundred it ain’t none of your 
business, Jim Dean, nor Millard’s neither, and if 
you won’t give me what I want, I guess there’s 
more than one saloon in this town where they’ll 
be glad to give me liquor for money ! I ain’t 
askin’ credit ! I’ve got the money right here. 
See ! ” 

He drew his left hand from a pocket of his 
neatly patched coat, and eagerly held it forward, 
open, to show the bit of silver on the wrinkled 
palm. 

“ I ain’t lyin’ to you, Jim Dean ! I pay for 
my drinks always. I never run in debt ! ” 

Jim Dean frowned, though a slight flush 
dawned in his cheeks and he turned nervously 
aside to evade the old man’s convincing proof. 


Seeds. 


7 


For Jim Dean knew too well whose slim hands 
worked almost unceasingly, and whose pale, 
sweet face bent above the sewing that should 
keep her name and this old man’s name free from 
the charge of debt. He knew, and he shook his 
head. 

“ I tell you, Mr. Barclay, I can’t let you have 
it ! I’ve been here long enough to know the 
penalty of disobeying orders, and not one drop 
will you have here to-night. Why don’t you 
go home now and wait till to-morrow for another 
drink?” 

The blush deepened upon his cheeks as he 
spoke, for it was unusual for a bartender to ad- 
vise temperance to a would-be customer, but the 
pale, sweet face came between him and that bit 
of silver in the old man’s trembling hand, and 
the words would not be silenced. They two 
were alone ; otherwise he would not have had 
the courage to utter this thought, and even so 
he glanced guiltily around to be certain of 
this. 

The old man’s face darkened, but a drunken 
smile was on his lips. He replaced the silver in 
his pocket, keeping his fingers still upon it lest 
it be taken from him, and turned unsteadily from 
the bar. 


8 


Barclay s Daughter. 


“ You’re a nice sort of feller — you are,” he said 
with heavy sarcasm, “Jim Dean! A-preachin’ 
temperance and sellin’ liquor at the same time ! 
If it’s all on account of my girl, you needn’t 
bother ! As I jest said, I don’t keep no account 
with any one, and it’s none of her business nor 
yours either if I want an extra drink ! What’s 
she good for if not to care for her father when 
he’s old and can’t take care of himself ! And if 
you won’t sell me the liquor I’ll go som’er’s else 
where I know they will ! ” 

Jim Dean made no reply, but hastily began set- 
ting the glasses straight on the bar as a customer 
entered and the old man passed out. He was 
somewhat annoyed and nervous, for he knew that 
John Barclay was perfectly well aware' that his 
friendly words were uttered only because of the 
gentle girl whose face was so sadly pale bent 
above her sewing, and not because he held any 
good wish for the man whose honor was made 
secondary to his appetite. 

He was a bartender, and the smell and taste 
and effect of liquor were every-day affairs to him, 
although, as in this instance, no one was allowed 
to sell in that saloon any liquor to any one who 
had been drinking before entering there. This 
was the one peculiar but undeviating command 


Seeds. 


9 


of Millard, the proprietor, and it was this that 
Jim Dean dared not disobey. 

“ For the temperate use of liquor is good,” 
Harry Millard said, arguing with himself when 
he decided upon this mode of making a swift 
fortune, “ and if I allow no one to become in- 
toxicated on my premises, is it not better for me, 
having this rule, to sell liquor than for another 
man who would sell the last drop he could get 
down a man’s throat and make him beastly drunk? 
If I don’t sell it some one else will, and my mode 
is a good one as well as my motive. No one 
shall be lowered by intoxication in my saloon, 
but I may as well make money in that way as 
for another man to do it with a lighter sense of 
honor ! ” 

As old Barclay turned from the saloon and the 
newcomer entered, an amused smile was upon 
his lips. He was thinking of this remarkable 
mode of silencing conscience and wondering of 
what avail it was to refuse a man that which he 
could easily obtain at the very next saloon ! 

“How are you, Jim?” he asked pleasantly, 
as he crossed to the bar, resting one hand lightly 
and steadily upon it. “ I’ll take whiskey this 
time, as I have been on a long drive and it is 
rather chilly to-night ! ” 


i o Barclay s Daughter. 

Then as he set the emptied glass upon the 
counter and carefully wiped his mustache, he 
added good-humoredly, — 

“ Poor Barclay’s had a little too much again, 
Jim. How did you come to overstep the bounds 
this time with him ? ” 

“ I didn’t,” Jim replied quickly. “ Whatever 
he had, he got before he came in here, Mr. Cart- 
wright. I have been here too long to overstep 
the bounds in that way !” 

The other lifted his brows and shrugged his 
shoulders knowingly. 

“ Oh, I see ! It was because you wouldn’t let 
him have it that he looked so savage. I imag- 
ined it the other way when I came in, for I 
thought you looked rather rattled. But you 
needn’t have minded me. I can wink, you know ! 
Poor fellow, that Barclay. No will at all. Now, 
if he could take a glass and stop there as I do, 
he would never have come down to such poverty. 
I rather think that girl of his gives him what 
little he does spend, anyway.” 

“ I know she does ! ” said Jim hastily. Then 
he bit his lip, turning away to ring the coin, just 
given in exchange for the whiskey, into the cash 
drawer as he added : “Any one with half an eye 
would know that, for he never works and has no 


Seeds. 


1 1 

hank account. Such fellows as he never do, 
you know.” 

The other nodded carelessly, pausing to light 
a cigar. 

“ More fools they, Dean ! I never go beyond 
what’s good for me, and no one else need to if 
they’d only cultivate a steady will. How’s Mil- 
lard ? And his daughter? There’s a pretty 
girl for you ! They are well ? Always are. I 
never saw such a man as he, and Miss Minnie 
isn’t one of the wishy-washy people who dare 
not say one’s soul is one’s own nor allow a fellow 
to turn a hair’s breadth from the straight way ! 
Give Barclay my advice when next he comes in, 
Jim. Good-night.” 

And nodding complacently Mr. Cartwright 
also passed out, a smile upon his lips. 

“ It’s all in habit,” he said to himself. “ Look 
at Millard ; look at Dean — always in it ; look 
at me ! Barclay needn’t have been a poor 
old toper if he had done as we do. It’s all 
folly!” 

“ But sometimes it is easier to give advice 
than to give the necessary strength of will to 
follow it,” murmured Jim Dean as he watched 
Cartwright down the street. “ A mighty sight 
easier, let me tell you, Tom, and I’d rather be 


I 2 


Barclay s Daughter. 


excused. If Barclay will drink to excess it’s his 
own lookout, I suppose ; but it’s a pity, too, on 
account of his daughter. He deserves all the 
hard knocks he gets, but she ” 

More customers ; courteous attention neces- 
sary ; no time to moralize, and then it was rather 
incongruous for a man to preach temperance 
and practice exactly the opposite. Even Jim 
Dean thought this and in consequence set aside 
further thought upon the subject of either Bar- 
clay’s absurd intemperance or his daughter’s ten- 
der patience. 

For what had intemperance or hardly used 
women to do with that model saloon ? And 
thinking this, Jim Dean laughed, shrugging his 
shoulders nonchalantly, not being able to see 
Anne Barclay as she sat at her sewing near the 
western window of her room, the last rays of 
sunset touching her face into a radiance beyond 
mere physical beauty. Her eyes were heavy 
with weariness, but the brave soul within struck 
light through them as she sang softly, trying to 
keep up her bravery. A low, sweet, rather thin 
voice murmuring a comforting hymn as the slen- 
der hands busily worked with the needle flashing 
in the western light as she ran it in and out 
through the snowy muslin garment. 


Seeds. 


i 


“ Other refuge have I none, 

Hangs my helpless soul on Thee; 

Leave, oh, leave me not alone, 

Still support and comfort me,” 

Many times the pale face was lifted and the 
dark eyes turned toward the window in anxious 
waiting, while an indescribable sadness touched 
and deepened about the pallid lips. The glory 
of the sunset was softly fading, and the radiance 
upon her face also faded, though still leaving 
that inner light upon the windows of her soul. 

“ All my trust on Thee is stayed, 

All my help from Thee I bring; 

Cover my defenceless head 
With the shadow of Thy wing.” 

The soft light without, slowly fading, left deli- 
cate shadows around the room, though lingering 
upon the tall clock against the opposite wall to 
make a white glory of its stolid face. The small 
round pine table was neatly set in the center of 
the room, and although the china was none too 
delicate or artistic, it was clear and polished by 
the free use of hot water and brisk towels until 
it reflected the lights and shadows near it. A 
tiny pat of butter pitifully small ; a loaf of bread ; 
upon the small stove at the other end of the 
room was a pot of steaming coffee strong and 
fragrant to the girl’s tired senses, with a square 


14 Barclay s Daughter . 

of steak in a pan drawn back, daintily brown, to 
keep hot. 

“ Father will be hungry when he comes ! ’’ 
said Anne Barclay, pausing in her song and her 
work to look earnestly up the street, the eyes 
unfaltering but pathetically sad. “ I wish that 
he would come. He is late and tea will be 
spoiled for him. I should not have prepared it 
so early.” 

No hint that he should not have kept her wait- 
ing ; no blame for him ; Anne Barclay never ut- 
tered one harsh word to her father, no matter how 
hard he might be with her. 

There was much passing upon the street, and 
now and then some one would turn and glance 
up at the window where Anne sat, to give her a 
smile or bow or both, invariably answered by a 
smile that illumined her pale face and .shone 
from her eyes starrily. Some of these passers-by 
were young like herself ; some belonged to her 
Sunday-school class ; some were busy workers ; 
but there were those among them who were 
older, who had heard in that pretty town of this 
girl’s brave struggle for her drunken father and 
herself, and proved their sympathy by kindly 
words, and offered work, as she would accept 
nothing that could be termed charity ! 


Seeds. 


15 


The brave old hymn had died away and there 
was no sound in the room save the sound of 
footsteps on the pavement, the dull creak of the 
rocker as Anne swayed slowly to and fro, bend- 
ing forward to use the last ray of daylight, — and 
the deep, constant ticking of the great clock 
against the wall. 

“ Quarter to eight ! ” said Anne, by and by, 
laying aside her sewing and rising to light the 
lamp upon the stand beside her. Then she 
paused ere drawing the shades to search the 
street, as far as she could see, for any sign of her 
father. There were many on the street, but 
search each face as she would, not one was he, 
and with a soft sigh, stifled ere formed, she drew 
down the shade, leaving a faint train of light be- 
neath as a beacon for his coming, and reseated 
herself at her sewing. • 

“ He will surely come presently,” she said) 
running her delicate, pink-tinted nail lightly over 
the seam which she had been sewing, to smooth 
it down. 

Very neat, perfectly clean the small square 
room where she was sitting, lighted only by that 
one lamp on the sewing-stand. A bare floor, 
but white with much scrubbing ; a few unframed 
engravings upon the white walls, cut from maga- 


1 6 Barclay s Daughter. 

zines or bought for a few cents. Exceedingly 
empty of comfort, yet made wholesome and at- 
tractive by the care of womanly hands and the 
presence of the womanly girl with her pale face 
bene over her sewing. Three small rooms on 
the second story of a small frame house on a 
side street, but a home’s happiness striven for by 
those two slender hands with the shining needle 
and the long seams of the undergarments which 
she was making. 

Eight o’clock ; half after eight ! The clock’s 
heavy hammer had scarcely swung from the gong, 
chiming the half hour, when a clumsy, stumbling 
foot sounded upon the stairs, and Anne rose 
hastily, laying aside her sewing to open the door 
and light him into the room. For, a wave of 
color across her cheeks, she knew that this was 
her father’s step, and that he brought with him 
the terrible effects of the cup whose dregs are 
serpents and whose touch is a soul’s possible 
death ! She was trembling and for an instant 
a gleam of tears touched her eyes ; then, stand- 
ing in the open doorway, she smiled and her face 
was lighted like the face of an angel with tender 
sorrow and pity as she reached out her hand to 
steady his faltering steps. 

“ Come in, father,” she said softly ; “ see ! I 


Seeds. 


17 

have a bright light for you after the darkness of 
the street.” 

He muttered a curse upon her as he steadied 
himself along the wall, rather than touch her out- 
stretched hand as he brushed past her into the 
clean white room. 

Her trembling ceased ; the color was gone 
from her face. She watched him anxiously lest 
he fall, and as he sunk into a chair tossing his 
hat upon the floor, entering after him, she gen- 
tly closed the door and crossed to the table to 
prepare him a cup of coffee, strong and fragrant. 
She knew that he would eat nothing in his pres- 
ent condition, but the coffee would do him 
good. 

As she handed him the cup he sullenly pushed 
it from him, almost knocking it from her hand. 

“ I’ve had something better than coffee,” he 
said, unsteadily, leering at her, though his eyes 
fell before her sweet, grieved face. “ Coffee’s 
best for women. Men need stronger stuff.” 

She made no reply. She knew from experi- 
ence that silence was best. She set the cup, with 
the contents untouched, back upon the table. 
He would take the coffee soon if she did not 
press it upon him. Then she made a pretence 
of eating, not touching the meat, for she knew 


1 8 Barclay s Daughter. 

that she must eat in order to work, and every- 
thing depended upon her strength. 

He watched her for a few moments in sullen 
silence ; then he, too, arose and crossed to the 
table, seating himself with much unnecessary 
noise. 

“ That Jim Dean of Millard’s is a mighty sight 
too stuck up and ordering ! ” he burst out pres- 
ently, stirring his coffee with his unsteady hand 
as though it were Jim Dean whom he would 
punish. “ An arrogant fellow and only a bar- 
tender at that ! Don’t you never speak to him 
again, Anne Barclay, or you ain’t got your father’s 
pride. To tell me to my face that I’d had all 
that was good for me, and he wouldn’t give me 
just one glass ! It’s a shame that such a fellow 
is allowed to live.” 

“ Mr. Dean has been kind to me, father,” said 
Anne quietly, a flicker of flush in her pale cheeks, 
her eyes steady and sweet ; “ why should I not 
speak to him ?” 

He brought one hand down heavily upon the 
table, rattling the dishes startlingly. His blood- 
shot eyes for the moment met hers wrathfully. 

“And why? You can sit there and ask such 
a question after what I have said, Anne Barclay ? 
I’ve always said that there was never one drop 


Seeds. 


19 


of my blood in your veins and now this proves 
it! To let a man like that Jim Dean say such 
an insulting thing to me and yet ask why you 
should not speak to him. It’s all of a piece with 
your impertinence. More than likely you asked 
him to refuse me. And I offered him good solid 
silver money for it, too. But because a man is 
old these young fellows think they can say any- 
thing to them without reproof. I’d like to’ve 
heard myself say such a thing when I was 
young ! ” 

“ You would not have said it,” Anne said gen- 
tly, a sigh in her heart, knowing, alas, that his 
words were only too literally true, — “you could 
not have said it, father. But I am sure that Mr 
Dean meant no harm. He has been very kind.” 

He turned upon her fiercely. 

“ Always preaching up his kindness ! ” he ex- 
claimed thickly, his voice beyond his control. 
“ I’ll hear no more of that Jim Dean, Anne Bar- 
clay, and if you mention him again in my pres- 
ence you’re no daughter of mine. Now, mind ! ” 

“ I am sorry you are angry, father,” she said 
very softly, taking up her sewing as she sat with 
him at the table, neither to neglect him or her 
work. “ I -shall try not to grieve you again.” 

“I should advise you to!” he grumbled, 


20 


Barclay s Daughter. 


pushing away his cup and leaning his elbow 
heavily upon the table, his head in his hand, ut- 
terly regardless of how often he had grieved her. 

And so silence fell over the neat white room and 
between the maudlin man and the woman who, 
his daughter, yet possessed not one drop of his 
blood in her pitiful heart, whose slim, tireless 
hands guided the needle along the garment she 
was sewing. 


CHAPTER II. 


PRETTY MISS MILLARD. 

“ It is as impossible for a man to be cheated by any one but 
himself as for a thing to be and not to be at the same time." 

— E7nerson. 

‘ I have so much plain sewing to be done 
that I shall send for Anne Barclay to-morrow,” 
said Mrs. Millard as she was looking over the 
linen brought her from the laundry. She was 
sitting with her daughter in her large, sunny, 
handsome room fronting upon a stretch of shaded 
street adorned with elegant residences. For 
Harry Millard was a wealthy man and could 
well afford an aristocratic neighborhood. “Anne 
Barclay takes unusual pains with her work for 
one so young, but it is a charity to help her in 
this way when ready-made underclothing can be 
bought so cheaply at the shops.” 

“Yes,” said pretty Miss Millard, turning her 
languid eyes upon her mother from the pages of 
her novel, half hidden by the huge cushions of 
her chair ; “ but Anne Barclay would scorn char- 
ity, mamma. She is as proud as we are, every 
whit — and as worthy ! ” 


( 21 ) 


22 


Barclay s Daughter. 


There was fine sarcasm in the pretty voice and 
deep meaning in the lifted eyes bent upon the 
elder woman, and Mrs. Millard knew this quite 
well, although she gave no sign. For Mrs. Mil- 
lard also knew that her daughter’s sensitive na- 
ture was constantly wounded by the knowledge 
that it was through the ruin of souls that money 
came to them. 

“ I presume that it will take her at the very 
least two weeks to do up all the sewing that I 
have to be done, and we will keep her with us 
during that time. They are so very poor that 
it will save them much expense for Anne to 
stay.” 

Miss Millard shrugged her shoulders and 
slightly raised her brows. 

“You know that she will not leave her father,” 
she said coldly. “ What would he do without 
her, mamma?" 

“ He would get along well enough,” replied 
Mrs. Millard easily ; “like other men, my dear. 
Do not waste your pity upon him.” 

For a moment the blue eyes flashed into the 
opposite blue eyes in ineffable scorn. Then the 
girl said steadily : 

“ I was wasting no pity upon him, mamma ; 
I was thinking of Anne.” 


Pretty Miss Millard. 


23 


And then she turned to her book again, re- 
fusing to continue the conversation, her thoughts 
too busy with this other girl’s brave struggle 
against poverty and wrong, for comprehending 
one word of the printed page before her. And 
after a keen side-glance at her saddened, preoc- 
cupied face, Mrs. Millard, with a faint sigh, con- 
tinued her work. And her thoughts also were 
very busy with the past and its scattered seed, 
and the harvest that should come. For she 
knew — she was not so hardened in conscience as 
not to confess to herself — that the seed sown 
oftentimes in good faith brought forth fruit too 
bitter for the harvest ! 

Her husband was a wealthy man and conscien- 
tious. Some of his friends went so far as to say 
that he was a fool for his conscience, but their 
good-natured raillery did not affect or move him 
from his determination to prove whether or no 
there could be harm done through the moderate 
use of liquor when this bound was never over- 
stepped, and when a generous hand and purse 
were ready in time of need to stranger or 
friend. 

Still his conscience would waken at times and 
warn him that only evil could come from evil 
and never figs from thistles. Still he argued 


24 


Barclay s Daughter. 


this down and kept on his way ; were many 
hurt ? The harvest must prove. 

Mrs. Millard was perfectly aware of this weak 
side to her husband’s conscience, for they had 
discussed the matter many times together, and 
she firmly believed, as she always at such times 
assured him, that no harm could come directly 
from them. If no liquor were sold in his saloon 
to an intoxicating extent no harm arose from 
his sale of it. If harm came, it must rest with 
the person who, unable to get it there, would go 
elsewhere for more than was good. Liquor was 
good in its way. 

And her husband perhaps only too willingly 
accepted this decision and silenced his conscience 
more and more effectually every time of argu- 
ment. 

Mrs. Millard was thinking of this, sitting in 
the sunny room with her daughter, and it was 
strange and most exasperating that clearly before 
her eyes the pale, sweet face of Anne Barclay 
rose to prove her argument false and to show 
the withering harvest coming to many because 
of evil seed sown by another. And presently, 
unable longer to endure this accusing face of 
memory, she rose, laying aside her work. 

“ It is time that we dressed for calling,” she said. 


Pretty Miss Millard. 


25 


“ Come, lay aside your novel, Minnie. I under- 
stand that the Wiltons have unexceptionable 
people visiting them from the city and I wish 
you to be at your best. The carriage will be 
around in an hour. Do not keep me waiting.” 

Minnie rose obediently, closing her book. For 
to Minnie Millard obedience was taught as one 
of the cardinal virtues. Her clear perception 
might show her the wrong, but it was not her 
duty to revolutionize the world or the people. 
She must follow her path of duty and allow 
others to pass upon their own. She was sad 
many times, seeing wrong blindly done, but she 
did not think that it was her sin to let it pass 
upon the other side with gaping wounds. 

“ I shall be ready, mamma,” she said quietly 
as she closed the door between them in passing 
to her room. 

“ I must not again allow her to talk upon such 
saddening subjects,” Mrs. Millard decided as she 
thought of the change upon the pretty young 
face at mention of Barclay’s daughter. “ It is 
her duty to be happy and fill her niche in life. 
I must impress this fact upon her. I have been 
careless.” 

And an hour later Mrs. Millard with her pretty 
daughter, both elegantly dressed and with com- 


26 


Barclay s Daughter. 


placent faces, drove from the entrance to their 
handsome home upon a round of calls, utterly 
forgetful of the pale sweet face of another girl, 
also young and pretty, in the small clean room 
at the other end of the town. And as the din- 
ner hour approached they drove back home, 
well satisfied with themselves, discussing such 
friends and acquaintances as they met or had 
spoken of during the afternoon. 

“ Go to your room and lie down for a half 
hour, Minnie,” said Mrs. Millard as they paused 
in the upper hall. “ I shall do the same. And 
I shall send a little wine to you at once. It will 
brighten you a bit, and you know that papa likes 
to have us bright when he is at home.” 

“ Yes,” said Minnie dutifully, though a shadow 
touched her face. “As you wish, mamma, of 
course.” 

“ Of course ! ” repeated Mrs. Millard emphat- 
ically as she entered her room, and crossed di- 
rectly to a closet where she kept such home 
remedies as were liable to be needed. “ Wine 
gives a tone to one’s looks and voice that noth- 
ing else can. No harm for you to have it, little 
Minnie, as we shall prove to all those who doubt.” 

And pouring a glassful for herself she drank 
it ere she poured another for her daughter. 


Pretty Miss Millard. 27 

“A judicious use of liquor is wise,” she said 
calmly, noting as she passed her mirror the re- 
newed sparkle in her own bright eyes. “ Tem- 
perance in all things is well, but not fanati- 
cism.” 

And carrying the wine with her own hands to 
her daughter’s room, she assured herself that she 
was comfortably lounging upon the bed, in a 
loose dressing-gown and dainty wool slippers, 
before she gave her the wine that should rest 
and refresh her. 

“ I really don’t need the wine, mamma,” Min- 
nie said half wistfully, knowing even as she 
spoke that her protest would not move her moth- 
er. “ I am so tired from talking to all those 
people that I can sleep soundly for the allowed 
half hour without it !” 

“That is absurd,” replied Mrs. Millard with 
cool decision. “ T am not giving you this to 
make you sleep, but to refresh you, to restore 
your nerves and to brighten you. It is merely 
medicine, Minnie, and I insist upon your drink- 
ing it at once.” 

“ Yes, mamma,” said Minnie with a soft little 
sigh, stifled in a smile up into her mother’s hand- 
some, displeased face. “ Of course you know 
best.” 


28 Barclay s Daughter. 

Her path of duty was so plain, how could she 
question it ? 

“ Most assuredly I know best,” said Mrs. 
Millard in a more gentle voice, touching for an 
instant with one cool hand the fluffy fair hair 
upon her daughter’s brow. “You are not to 
think silly things, Minnie. We can judge what 
is good for you and you need only obey.” 

But as Minnie closed her eyes dutifully, her 
soft cheek against the downy pillow, clear, in 
place of her mother’s face, rose the thin, sweet, 
pallid face of Barclay’s daughter bent steadfastly 
over her tireless sewing, following her hard path 
of duty as unquestioningly as she, yet what a 
different path ! 

“Poor little thing!” murmured Minnie, for 
Minnie’s heart was tender. “ Poor little brave 
Anne ! Can she overcome temptation when so 
many cannot ? Shall I tempt her and discover 
if there is a flaw in her conscience as in ours ? 
Would it not be too bad to spoil the pretty pic- 
ture of patience she makes as she is ? ” 

But, unknowing of this, Anne was smiling the 
next day as she glanced up from her sewing at 
the little figure sitting opposite her. A small, 
deformed little fellow with great brown, wistful 
eyes and a mouth that betrayed much suffering. 


Pretty Miss Millard. 29 

He was fashioning paper flowers with remarka- 
ble taste for one so young. 

“ Of course it’s tiresome, Anne,” he said in a 
thin, chirping voice, his eyes lifted to her face, 
“ an’ it makes my back ache sometimes, but it’s 
ever so much nicer’n settin’ all day a-doin’ noth- 
in’ when you an’ marm an’ lots of other folks is 
al’ays a-doin’ things ! Thinkin’ of that helps me 
when I get real hard tired.” 

Then it was that Anne smiled. She leaned 
forward and with one white hand softly brushed 
the short brown hair from the boy’s fore- 
head. 

“ Like a brave boy ! ” she said, and her voice 
was tender like her smile, and her eyes lightened 
his soul. “ It is such stuff that makes noble 
men, Dick ! ” 

The little fellow nodded several times, keep- 
ing his lips shut tightly. By and by, very gravely 
he spoke, half musingly as though to himself 
more than to her. 

“ It don’t somehow seem’s though jest a little 
chap like me could ever grow up to be a real 
nice man, Anne, but I’ve thought consid’rable 
’bout it an’ I’m a-goin’ to try to be the same as 
though I wasn’t all crooked up, an’ lame an’ un- 
beautiful outside. Maybe if I do try hard, bein’ 


30 


Barclay s Daughter. 


nice inside will make a shine through — like you, 
Anne, when you smile — an’ folks’ll like me an’ 
know ’t I tried to be brave.” 

“ Of course they will,” said Anne with such 
quiet conviction that the boy’s lips parted to 
smile ; “and anyway you will know that you did 
your very best, Dick. It is the trying, not the 
actual doing, that is most pleasing to God and 
ourselves. For we know when we do right or 
wrong as well as God does ! And as I so often 
tell you, I am proud of my friend, Dick Ches- 
ter ! ” 

For some time they were silent, and then Dick 
added very softly, — 

“ Anne ! My dad died when I was a mite of 
a chap— jest a baby, you know, — but marm tells 
me such nice stories about him, how kind he was 
and how much he done for her till he was hurt 
in the mills an’ died an’ went to heaven. That’s 
my dad. Marm looks so sorry when she tells 
’bout him it makes me sorry too. But he was 
good — my dad was, Anne ! ” His voice sunk to 
a low, half frightened tone. “ Your dad ain’t ’s 
good as my dad, is he ? ’Cause if he is,” Anne 
leaned forward to touch her soft fingers to his 
lips to silence any hard word, but he turned his 
head aside to avoid her and would speak, — 


Pretty Miss Millard. 31 

“ ’cause if he is, I — am — glad God took him 
away to heaven ! ” 

No smile on Anne’s face now. Very grave 
it was, grieved and sad, and yet very, very ten- 
der. She let her sewing fall in her lap and still 
leaning forward, took the boy’s two hands away 
from his work and clasped them close in hers, 
her eyes clear and steady, meeting his. 

“But if God knows best, Dick dear!” she 
said, sweetly, an undertone in her voice that si- 
lenced his outspoken thought. “ If God said 
that there was need for even a real bad man to 
live — though my father isn’t bad, Dick, only 
weak and not always able to resist temptation — 
maybe to prove some one else, to strengthen 
some other character, to make obedient a re- 
bellious heart, wouldn’t you say too that you 
were glad he should live, and that you would 
still try very hard to be a nice man in spite of 
that ? My father is very kind, Dick, when he is 
himself. Don’t ever think otherwise. It is only 
when bad men tempt him that sometimes he for- 
gets himself. It is worse for those who tempt 
him than it is for him to yield, for they know 
his weak will and make him fall. They do it 
for money, Dick ; never, never, never because 
they care for him ! ” 


32 


Barclay's Datighter. 


The boy’s face was paling before the soft ve- 
hemence of her voice, and the faint touch of red 
in her cheeks. He drew his hands away from 
her hold, but took one of hers in one of his own, 
patting the slim fingers with mute regret for his 
words. 

“ I didn’t know it was wicked to say that, 
Anne,” he murmured wistfully. “ I wouldn’t 
have said it for anything if I’d thought it was. 
Only I thought so much ’bout you an’ us — settin’ 
alone by myself when marm was away an’ I 
hadn’t you to come to — an’ it seemed so dread- 
ful for you — some things did— that I said to my- 
self, I was glad it couldn’t happen to marm an’ 
me ! But I’m sorry, Anne, real sorry if I’ve 
made you feel bad, an’ I won’t even think such 
things again ! ” 

She knew that he meant it ; that he was such 
a brave little fellow that he would subject even 
his thought to his will. Others might not speak 
of it : he would not even allow himself to think 
of it! His will was remarkable in his effort to 
be a “ nice ” man. The sternness of her face 
softened ; her eyes smiled, then her lips, and her 
face was alight meeting his troubled eyes. She 
withdrew her hand from his with a gentle pat 
upon his thin hand, and resumed her sewing. 


Pretty Miss Millard. 


33 


“ Remember, Dick dear,” she said softly, the 
brave smile still lingering about her lips and in 
her eyes, “ whenever you see — anything wrong 
with — my father, that it is not nearly so wicked 
for him to yield to temptation with his weak 
will, as it is for those who know and tempt him. 
We are judged according to our abilities and not 
according to what we do.” 

“An’ then is Mr. Dean wicked, Anne?” 
queried the boy sorrowfully, resuming his work 
as she took up her sewing. “ Mr. Dean’s al’ays 
so nice to me even when the other fellers tease 
me, is he wicked too ? ” 

A strange shyness touched the girl’s face. Her 
head drooped lower over her sewing. Her eyes 
were hidden by their silken brown lashes ; for a 
moment her hand trembled, guiding her needle. 
Then she lifted her head with quiet dignity, an- 
swering him. 

“Mr. Dean is a bartender, Dick. He may 
not drink himself ; he may even not realize how 
much harm he is doing selling liquor to others 
according to the rule of that saloon, but every 
glass he serves is so much crime, for it wakens 
the appetite and weakens the will, and there are 
so many other saloons not far from Mr. Millard’s 
where they will have no trouble in buying all 


34 Barclay s Daughter . 

they wish. He may be very kind — he has been 
kind to me, too, Dick, but he must know that 
their traffic is not good. Mr. Millard says that 
he does no harm. Broken hearts and broken 
homes tell different stories ! ” 

Her voice trembled with her earnestness, her 
hands trembled too. Then she regained her calm 
self-control and rose as a light tap upon the door 
announced a visitor. 


CHAPTER III. 


TEMPTED. 

" Let every man be fully persuaded in his own mind.” — Bible. 

“ Come in,” said Anne quietly, all trace of 
her excitement gone, as she crossed to the door, 
opening it to admit her visitor. Anne’s occu- 
pation sometimes brought her many visitors. 

Pretty Miss Millard hesitated an instant on 
the threshold. There was a flush as of embarrass- 
ment on her delicate face and her eyes were shy, 
meeting the other girl’s sweet, true face and 
gentle eyes. Then she entered the room, gra- 
ciously smiling across at Dick as she caught 
sight of him beside Anne’s chair. A subtle 
fragrance was clinging about her as she came 
like a charming vision into the plain little room. 

Anne placed a chair for her with a gentle 
word of welcome, for this was not their 'first 
meeting. Many times this pretty daughter of 
Millard left her handsome home to come to this 
slim, pale girl in her poor little rooms as though 
there were some charm about the quiet, grave 

( 35 ) 


2,6 Barclay s Daughter. 

girl that touched even this other’s gay heart and 
careless life. 

“Always busy!” said pretty Miss Millard 
waving aside the chair with a slight gesture of 
one gloved hand and crossing to Anne’s work 
table, still smiling upon Dick. “ I hope that 
you are not too busily engaged, Anne ! Mam- 
ma sent me to ask you if you can come to us 
to-morrow ? We have a perfect stack of sew- 
ing to be done. It will surely take you weeks 
to do it, though mamma said two weeks; but I 
say if any one can do so much in that time they 
must be fairies ! Though maybe you are a 
fairy,” she added, a swift change in her voice 
as she turned to Anne. “You look like an 
angel, Anne, with your face and eyes after 
Raphael s Madonna, but maybe you’re really 
only a fairy ! What do you think, little lad ?” 

Dick felt a sudden dislike of this pretty, vola- 
tile girl — Millard’s daughter. He closed his lips 
tightly and shook his head, his fingers closing 
upon the arms of his chair as he looked frankly 
up at this woman who could smile so easily and 
talk without thought ! 

“ She’s good,” he said emphatically. “ Real 
good, Miss Millard ! She can’t be an angel, for 
you have to be dead before you can be angels ; 


Tempted. 


37 


an’ she ain’t a fairy, I know, for fairies haven’t 
any souls ! But she’s good. Everybody says ’t 
Anne’s good ! ” 

Miss Millard nodded. 

“ No doubt of that, laddie. She’s good, angel 
or demon. And now will you come, Anne ? 
I don’t think the work is so very hard, but there 
is plenty of it, and mamma wishes it done at 
home. There is too much to send out, and she 
is dreadfully particular, you know. She always 
wishes to see each garment as it is under way 
and finished. You must come, Anne. We will 
treat you well.” 

Pretty Miss Millard was not herself that 
morning, and Anne recognized this upon her 
first entrance into the room. The flush upon 
her face was also marked. Anne believed, and 
a slow, faint color crept to her own cheeks, that 
her conversation with Dick regarding this girl’s 
father had been overheard. She would not 
wound one person for another’s sin, and she 
strove at once to remove any unpleasant embar- 
rassment that her words might have caused. 

“You know that I do all my work here at 
home, Miss Millard,” she said gently, and her 
rare smile would have healed any wound that 
words could make. “ I could not go away 


38 Barclay s Daughter. 

during the day, for father often requires me 
here days as well as evenings. If your mother 
will not let me bring the work home, I fear I 
must refuse it. I don’t want to,” her eyes 
smiled now as well as her lips, “ for I want all 
the work I can get, but I could not leave home 
for father’s sake, Miss Millard. He has no one 
but me.” 

Miss Millard laughed, laying one hand lightly 
on Anne’s arm. 

“You should consider before you refuse,” 
she said more earnestly. “ Shouldn’t she, Dick ? 
We want you; you want to do the work, and 
surely your father could let you come during 
the day. We intended keeping you at the house 
until the work was completed, but I told mam- 
ma that I knew that is impossible ! You see I 
know you, Anne Barclay, and she said to secure 
your promise for the days. You must come ! ” 

Anne shook her head gently, but in a way 
that proved that she was not to be moved from 
what she considered her duty. 

“You and your mother are very kind, Miss 
Millard,” she said, “but I cannot leave home 
for any length of time. Sometimes father 
comes home unexpectedly, and sometimes he 
doesn’t go out at all, and if I were away what 


Tempted. 39 

would he do ? He could not get his own meals 
or do the work ! ” 

‘‘You might do the work before you leave 
here,” urged Miss Millard, in a voice of unusual 
sweetness. She went there that morning espe- 
cially to prove the girl. Her own conscience 
was not clear, and this girl’s sweet patience and 
undeviating bravery in the hard life-struggle 
troubled her. She knew that her one sorrow 
was her father’s intemperance. She also knew 
that her father frequented her father’s saloon, 
and even if he were not allowed to become in- 
toxicated there, he was given enough to waken 
a craving for more and cause him to seek other 
saloons. 

Liquor in her own home was an every-day 
affair, but she seldom saw any one under its 
influence. Wine was always on their table. 
Wine was her mother’s remedy and tonic. 
Wine was given her from the time she was 
restless in her cradle until that day. She had 
heard it spoken of as good in its place, and its 
misuse was due to the person using it, not to 
the man who sold it ! No one man was another 
man’s keeper ! If a man would drink, he would 
drink somewhere ; what more harm was it for her 
father to sell it to him than for some other man ? 


40 


Barclay s Daughter. 


She knew that Anne Barclay gave up much 
for her father ; she could not believe that she 
would give up a comfortable sum of money — 
such as they would pay her if she went to 
them — just for the sake of her drunken father’s 
comfort ! 

“Your father would be willing, I am sure, 
Anne,” she said coaxingly. “ He would not 
stand in your light. No father would. Say 
that you will come ! Mamma likes you better 
than any one to sew for her, and I like you for 
yourself ! Don’t refuse me ! ” 

Anne’s eyes were wistful as Dick’s own eyes 
were, watching her. Dick loved her, and he 
knew that she was troubled. 

Still Anne shook her head. 

“ I cannot leave home for father’s sake even 
if I must lose the work,” she said very gravely 
and sweetly. “ My mother left me to care for 
him when she died. I must keep my promise to 
her. If I may have the work here, I will do it as 
carefully as though I were in your home, Miss 
Millard ; but if I may not have it here, I must 
refuse to do it. I am very, very sorry, but I 
cannot do otherwise.” 

“ I thought you were too womanly always to 
stand in your own light, Anne ! ” said Miss Mil- 


Tempted. 


4i 


lard tauntingly. “ It is because you will not 
come, not because you cannot ! ” 

Dick rose. His face was quivering. He was 
deadly pale. 

“No, Miss Millard!” he said in indignant 
defence of his friend. “ Anne is good ! She 
gives up a hundred times more than you would 
for your father ! I can’t bear to have folks say 
hard things to her, and they sha’n’t while I’m 
here ! ’’ 

For a moment Miss Millard stood motionless 
and rather scornful before them. Then she 
turned to Anne, a flush on her face, holding 
out both hands with a pretty gesture of depre- 
cation. 

“Anne! Anne!” she cried softly. “I did 
not mean to wound you ! I would not do it, 
truly ! I cannot help my father’s fault or his 
wrong to others ! Forgive me, Anne Barclay, 
and help me ! ” 

Dick sunk back into his chair, his indignation 
suddenly changed to sympathy. He clasped his 
hands among the bits of paper and half-made 
flowers in his lap, his large, grave eyes searching 
Miss Millard’s face, his lips quivering with ex- 
citement, his face softened with earnest pity. 

Anne, half timidly, half tenderly, took the 


4 2 Barclay s Daughter. 

outstretched hands in hers as she answered the 
bitter cry from a wakened heart. 

“ Dear Miss Millard,” she said sweetly, draw- 
ing the girl toward a chair and pressing her very 
gently into it, her hand upon her shoulder, “you 
must not think of such a thing ! You have al- 
ways been kind to me — you and your mother, 
and I could not forget that in spite of any 
sorrow that comes to me through my father’s 
weakness ! ” 

“But my father!” interrupted Minnie sadly. 
“He has not been kind, and yet, Anne, he 
is the dearest and best, the most kind, most 
thoughtful of fathers to me ! There is nothing 
possible which he would not do for any one 
who needed or asked of him ! And he does not 
think that it is wrong, his — business ! He does 
not wish to spoil your life, or any one’s. If I 
should tell him this he would not believe it his 
fault.” 

“ You must not think of it any more,” said 
Anne quietly. “In any case it is no fault of 
yours, Miss Millard. No one could blame you, 
and I suppose that a man should have enough 
will and self-respect to overcome temptation ; 
but it is not easy to all men ; and be this as it 
may, no one can excuse the wilful sale of that 


Tempted. 43 

which ruins manhood and home and future hap- 
piness.” 

Her lips were stern though her voice was 
kind, and with her eloquent face before her, 
Miss Millard realized that great sin could grow 
and thrive from the tiniest seed constantly scat- 
tered, the thorns and weeds garnered in for 
those who are innocent of the sowing! Our 
harvest is not always as we sow, but as those 
who sow before us. We answer in part for 
their sin. 

Miss Millard spread out her two pretty hands 
in passionate protest. 

“ But if your father or any one dies a drunk- 
ard’s death, it is not my father’s fault, Anne 
Barclay ! The liquor which my father sells is 
what you can get anywhere else, save that it is 
always the very best. If he did not sell it, some 
other man would, and probably with far less 
principle about it. His mode of selling it is al- 
most a charity in itself, for it places a certain 
restraint upon all his customers. Not one ever 
leaves there intoxicated, unless he was in that 
condition before entering there, and then he 
never has his order filled for him. Even you, 
with your prejudice, can see what a restraint 
this must be.” 


44 


Barclay s Daughter. 


“ How much of a restraint ?” queried Anne 
sadly, her large dark eyes growing wistful as 
they met those of the saloon-keeper’s daughter. 
“ Do not think me prejudiced, Miss Millard, but 
how much of a restraint is this mode of selling 
liquor ? Only for so long as until the man who 
desires a glass or a dozen glasses more than are 
good for him can go to another saloon. And 
this, possibly, on the very next block. Because 
liquor will be sold, is it any excuse for you or 
me to sell it ? Because wrong is done, are we 
to join the wrong-doers ? Because Lucifer re- 
volted from heaven, did all the angels fall?” 

“ But that is an exploded theory,” said Miss 
Millard somewhat contemptuously. “Milton’s 
‘ Paradise Lost ’ is well enough as a poem, but 
it will not hold in science. That is no argu- 
ment at all, Anne.” 

“ It is not from a scientific standpoint, I 
know,” affirmed Anne still sweetly and sadly, 
“but it represents exactly my meaning, Miss 
Millard. Because there is evil in the world, are 
we all to choose evil ? Because one man has 
enough will-power to go just so far and never 
deviate from the right, ninety-nine men would 
inevitably fall. You must acknowledge that. 
You see it every day everywhere.” 


Tempted. 


45 


Miss Millard frowned. Miss Millard was 
very pretty ; her brow was white and smooth ; 
her eyebrows arched ; frowns did not become 
her. Her curved red lips grew unpleasantly 
straight. She knew that she had lost this argu- 
ment, but she would not yield to this sweet, 
pale girl pleading for her father and other men 
like him. She shrugged her shoulders, turning 
away, not even glancing at Dick. 

“ Which means of course that you will not 
come to sew for mamma,” she said carelessly. 
“As you like, Anne. Mamma likes your sew- 
ing, and it would have helped you a good deal, 
but there are plenty of others who will be glad 
enough to come.” 

She crossed the room and laid one hand light- 
ly upon the door-handle, turning it, when a step 
sounded upon the stairs. A heavy, stumbling, 
uncertain step. A step that seemed to bring 
every drop of blood in Anne Barclay’s body to 
her cheeks and then fade, leaving her like mar- 
ble. Some one was muttering in an imbecile 
manner in the outer hall. 

Miss Millard looked at Anne, removed her 
hand from the door and hesitated, not knowing 
what to do. Instinctively she knew who the 
newcomer was. 


46 Barclay s Daughter. 

Then, forgetting her pretty visitor, Anne 
looked toward Dick, with a half smile on her 
lips, as though partly to reassure him, partly to 
recall to his mind the promise he had given her 
not to think ill of her father should he see him 
in his weakness, and crossing to the door opened 
it to admit her father as she always did, stepping 
into the hall to offer him her assistance. Very 
gentle and sweet was her voice when she spoke, 
not a hint of harshness in it. 

“ I am glad that you are home early, father,” she 
said. “ Come in. Miss Millard is here, and Dick- 
Dick has been keeping me company while you 
were away. You always liked Dick, you know.” 

Dick knew why she urged this upon her fa- 
ther ; Miss Millard guessed it too, but neither 
was prepared for his reception of it. 

He was not in a state of beastly intoxication ; 
it would have been easier for them had he been 
so ; but he had taken just enough liquor to set 
a bullying demon in his breast. He swayed into 
the room and paused, holding to the door to 
steady himself. 

For a moment he stood staring uncertainly at 
all three ; then with a sudden assumption of his 
lost strength he straightened up, throwing back 


Tempted. 47 

his shoulders and clenching his hands. His eyes 
were bloodshot and bleared. 

“And what’s Millard’s daughter a-doing 
here ? ” he demanded wrathfully. “ The mighty 
pious saloon-keeper who sets himself up above 
the rest of us, and talks so big about doing good 
to his feller men ! If he’s got such a scrupulous 
conscience he’d ought to quit sellin’ liquor and 
take to preaching, instead of preaching and sell- 
in’ on the quiet at the same time ! Millard’s 
an old hypocrite, that’s what he is, and no call 
for his daughter to come to my house. I tell 
her so. I ain’t afraid of bein’ open and honest, 
and sayin’ what I mean.” 

Anne’s delicate face was paling and flushing 
alternately. She knew the utter impossibility 
of silencing him, and only attempted to divert 
his attention. 

“ It is almost dinner-time, father, but if you 
wish I will get it at once. You must be hungry 
after walking in this cold wind. Dick and I 
planned a treat for you. Just wait till I cook 
it, and you shall taste. Thin, crisp fried potatoes 
and the tenderest lamb-chop and pie — pumpkin- 
pie, father, like grandma used to make in the 
old farmhouse when we went for Thanksgiving. 


48 Barclay s Daughter. 

Doesn’t that make you hungry and wish your 
dinner right away ? ” 

She laughed and tried to make him laugh with 
her at this old memory. 

For a moment he softened. Perhaps the 
memory of his mother was strong upon him, and 
his great life failure stood out blackly against 
that. Then with a muttered imprecation upon 
all women but his frail, pale daughter in par- 
ticular, he swayed, turned upon her, and lifted 
his clenched, trembling hand, denouncing her. 

“ A great treat, oh, a grand treat truly for a 
poor old man like me, who am constantly starved 
and turned away and ill-treated even by my own 
girl. And Dick, too. Dick learns fine things 
from you of respect for his elders. When I was 
a boy the young folks were taught to care for 
the old ones, but now it’s turned around. Great 
fellows like you, Dick Chester, living on your 
marm, and I kept continually half starved by my 
own daughter. A treat — a mighty treat ! I’ll 
show you what’s a treat. I’ll teach you not to be 
making up to a stuck-up saloon-keeper’s daugh- 
ter, Anne Barclay. I’ll let you know, and others 
too, that I’m as good as they, if I am only old 
Jack Barclay !” 

Dick was trembling and pallid, shrinking back 


Tempted. 


49 


in his chair. He knew what it was when this 
man was in a drunken rage. But Dick was no 
coward if he was physically small and weak and 
deformed. He summoned his courage and arose, 
overcoming his terror, to defend Anne. He 
knew that she would need to be defended. 

Miss Millard still stood uncertainly before the 
door. In all her life she had never witnessed a 
scene like this, and she did not know what was 
likely to follow, but she was afraid of this brut- 
ish-spoken man so sadly contrasted with his 
daughter. The words regarding her own father 
stung her deeply, but the conviction was grow- 
ing upon her that the seed which he sowed, even 
with the best intention, was evil seed. Then she 
uttered a cry and started forward. 

For Anne staggered, falling back, lifting one 
thin, white hand to cover the dark spot upon 
her cheek where her father’s hand had fallen 
upon her, in spite of Dick’s half-sobbing effort 
to defend her. 

And yet that very night the conscientious pro- 
prietor of Millard’s model saloon, unmindful of 
the sorrow or degradation rising from even his 
carefully sown seed of evil, planned for the fu- 
ture of his daughter, herself to witness the effect 
of liquor upon one man ! 


50 


Barclay s Daughter. 


“ Cartwright is an excellent young fellow,” 
he said to his wife, sitting before the cheerful 
grate fire in the handsome library. “ An excel- 
lent fellow, Mary. He has fine prospects in 
business, a fair fortune, and good habits. What 
more could we desire for our girl’s husband ? 
Minnie is accomplished and pretty, and her blood 
is as good as his. His blood is blue enough, to 
be sure. As to her fortune, I rather think that 
I can attend to that. They have been out con- 
siderably together of late, and as Cartwright 
seems interested, perhaps it would be as well to 
encourage their friendship. There are so many 
worthless young men nowadays that it is well to 
retain all such as he.” 

Mrs. Millard approved of young Cartwright 
herself, but she considered it wise to frown upon 
her husband’s plairr speech for a time. 

“ I have no fault to find with Mr. Cartwright,” 
she said sweetly, “ but when it comes to speak- 
ing seriously of any settlement for our Minnie, 
I cannot reconcile myself to the thought that 
when she marries she will never be so thorough- 
ly our own as she is now. She is still so young, 
Harry ! ” 

“She is twenty,” was the calm reply; “and 
we should not be selfish, Mary. I do not be- 


Tevipted. 


5i 


lieve in long engagements or late marriages. 
Minnie is as old as most girls when they marry, 
and we should look out for her good. I shall in- 
vite Cartwright to dine here to-morrow night, 
and we will get up a theatre party for the even- 
ing. I wish to see myself how they act together.” 

Mrs. Millard knew enough of her husband’s 
disposition not to oppose him in this. She 
merely said that to her Minnie seemed yet but 
a child. Marriage would break up their old re- 
lations to each other ; the child a woman, the 
old home yielded for a new. 

“And that is why,” continued Mr. Millard, 
undisturbed, “ I wish to establish a friendship 
between our daughter and young Cartwright be- 
fore she gives her affections to some one else. 
You are a woman, and tactful and wise about 
these things, Mary, and must acknowledge that 
I am doing the best thing possible now.” 

In consequence of which young Cartwright 
was invited to dine at Mr. Millard’s handsome 
house the following evening, and also to meet 
pretty Miss Millard, which was inevitable and 
pleasant. 

Young Cartwright admired Miss Millard be- 
cause, as he stated in speaking of her, there was 
very little nonsense about her. She could talk 


52 


Barclay s Daughter. 


well ; she danced delightfully, and she sung. 
He enjoyed watching the sparkles in her bright 
eyes when she talked, and the dimples deepen 
around the smiling lips. Her father had money, 
too, and money was desirable. He had a fortune 
in his own right, but hers would add to this 
pleasurably. An easy life was impossible with- 
out money, and he liked an easy life. 

Then, too, if he married Minnie Millard — and 
he had pondered the question often — her nature 
would impel her to be devoted to him and easily 
managed. He would never hear woman’s rights 
discussed in his home ; no one would dispute his 
decisions. 

Rather a pleasant prospect, pondering upon it 
pro and- con ! 

Cartwright received the informal note of 
friendly invitation from Mr. Millard, as he was 
dressing the next morning. He delayed his toi- 
let to consider once more as to whether or not 
he should let things drift along, and go with the 
tide and marry this charming girl. He did not 
once consider that she might possibly have a 
different voice in the matter. He was a favorite 
among the ladies and believed himself irresistible. 
It simply remained for him to make up his mind 
and all things would be according to his wish. 


Tempted. 


53 


He did not love Minnie Millard, and he knew 
this quite well, but what then ? He loved no 
other woman and he might come in time to love 
her. Certainly she was charming. With love 
lived always jealousy ; without love they would 
be more comfortable ! And then there were her 
position and wealth. The balance swayed low 
down now in her favor. 

He sat before his dressing-case and thought 
deeply. He must decide now and drift with this 
fair tide or turn and set out in some other way 
through life, and life was short at best. He re- 
read the brief, good-natured but utterly informal 
note, and read shrewdly much between the lines, 
and then sat staring at himself in the mirror. 
Should he go ? 

“ I’ll do it !” he said suddenly, rising and lay- 
ing aside the note. “ Millard’s a father-in-law 
of whom one need not be ashamed if he is a liq- 
uor-seller ; he’s a philanthropist as well and im- 
mensely wealthy. Mrs. Millard is handsome and 
well-bred, and blue blood, too, as I happen to 
know. As for Minnie, she is a pretty little thing, 
and will make a charming mistress of my house. 
No preaching behind the scenes from her! No 
lectures on temperance when wine comes on the 
table ! Some women make fools of themselves 


54 


Barclay s Daughter. 


about that ! There’s poor Ned Granger with a 
lecture every week, because he will take his glass 
of wine at the Club! No more steady fellow 
than Ned. But if I marry Minnie Millard there 
will be no such scenes for me, for she takes it 
sensibly herself. I’ll say ‘yes’ to your invita- 
tion, Mr. Millard, and go to-night, and go, too, 
with this tide ! ” 

And so young Cartwright settled the fate of 
pretty Minnie Millard as well as his own, but 
gave no thought that his will might not be hers 
also. His pleasure should be hers, and he was 
satisfied. So he decided. 

Mrs. Millard was a charming hostess ; she was 
haughty if she chose, but when she would she 
could be a delightful woman. She chose to be 
specially winning to Mr. Cartwright, and he felt 
the charm of her graciousness. Millard also in 
his large-hearted, generous way made his guest 
feel his welcome. They talked on every subject 
of interest with wit and keen appreciation of 
their subject during the long dinner. 

The dinner itself was everything that a dinner 
should be, and wine was upon the sideboard and 
every one drank of it. Pretty Miss Millard 
smiled upon him, her eyes very bright over her 
wine-glass as they drank each the other’s health 


Tempted. 


55 


and happiness after the old custom of the house, 
and not one of them held wine as other than one 
of the natural courses to a dinner and a compan- 
ion to wit. 

“If you have the slightest scruple about tak- 
ing wine, I hope that you will not hesitate about 
speaking of it,’’ said his host as he lifted his own 
glass. “Many have such scruples and perhaps 
you are among them, Cartwright. I consider 
myself a temperance man, for temperance means 
moderation and not entire abstinence ; but I hope 
that you will speak if you wish. Remember that 
we honor our guests ! ” 

Mr. Cartwright smiled. He smiled across at 
his host, but in some way it strayed around to 
Minnie, ere it died from his lips. 

“ I could not fail to be assured of that,” he re- 
plied ; “and I thank you for your consideration, 
Mr. Millard ; but like yourself I am a temper- 
ance man, not a teetotaler ! I know how much 
is good for me and never overstep the bounds. 
I would not fail to drink your health in this de- 
lightful fruitage ! Doing so could bring no one 
to harm.” 

He smiled once more, but now the smile was 
only for Miss Minnie, and the warm glow of the 
wine spread up her cheeks as the long lashes fell 


56 Barclay s Daughter. 

for a moment hiding the bright, sweet eyes. 
And after dinner she sung for him at his request 
a dainty love song, with her half shy eyes and 
pretty face turned aside from his eyes ! 

And later he was her escort at the theatre, and 
surely, he said, all was going well, following his 
careful plans ! 


CHAPTER IV. 


A SOFTER HEART. 

" The light of love, the purity of grace, 

The mind, the music breathing from her face, 

The heart whose softness harmonized the whole, 
And oh ! that eye was in itself a Soul ! ” 

— The Bride of A by do s. 


“ Anne ! ” 

Dick glanced swiftly up as Anne rose to greet 
her visitor. Dick was always with Anne when 
it was possible, for his mother was away from 
home a good deal, and she felt that there could 
be no better place for her boy during her absence, 
than with this girl. And Dick loved Anne. 

A frown gathered upon his brow when he saw 
the newcomer. He had not yet forgiven Miss 
Millard for her harshness to his friend upon her 
last visit, and it was Miss Millard who now called 
Anne from the doorway. 

“ Anne ! ” 

“Will you come in, Miss Millard?” queried 
Anne in her soft voice, as though there had 
never passed between them any word of other 

( 57 ) 


53 


Barclay s Daughter. 


than good-will. “You are kind to come again 
this morning. Is there anything that I can do 
for you ? ” 

She placed a chair for her guest as she rose, 
going toward her. 

Miss Millard smiled. She crossed the room 
to Anne, laying her hand upon her shoulder. 

“Anne dear,” she said very sweetly, her eyes 
steadily meeting the other’s quiet eyes, “ I have 
come to tell you that mamma is satisfied with 
no one’s work but yours, and had rather have 
it done away from home than not to have you 
do it ! As you cannot go to us, I have brought 
it to you. You will not again refuse it, will 
you ? ” 

“ You are kind,” said Anne gently. Her eyes 
were soft and dark with emotion. “ Certainly 
I shall not refuse. Miss Millard ! On the con- 
trary the work is very acceptable to me, and I 
can promise that it shall be carefully done.” 

“We know that,” replied Miss Millard carefully. 
“ See what it is to have a good reputation even 
for work, Anne ! We are sure that we may 
rely upon you even if you say no word, because 
you always do your best. Perhaps it would be 
better if there were more like you in that. 
What have you to say about it, Dick?” 


A Softer Heart. 


59 


Dick had been regarding her respectfully but 
earnestly since she entered the room. Miss Mil- 
lard could be very pleasant, but Anne was his 
friend, and Dick was loyal to his friends. 

“God makes folks different,” he said sturdily, 
his slim fingers busy among the soft, colored 
papers in his lap. “Anne says so, an’ she 
knows, Miss Millard. If everybody was just 
alike I don’t think it would be a bit nice ; an’ 
besides no one could be jest like Anne ! ” 

“No,” acquiesced Miss Millard very gently 
and gravely now, as she seated herself for a 
moment beside Dick, with a tender show of in- 
terest in his work ; as Anne with her usual 
thoughtfulness brought a glass of water for her 
guest, and then seated herself at her sewing. 
“ No. Anne means Anne individually and not 
a sect or class. Y ou are right there, laddie Dick ! 
Anne, had you a lover, he would be terribly 
jealous of this friend of yours ! ” 

Anne glanced up quickly, a keen expression, 
passing instantly, in her eyes as she searched 
the opposite pretty face set round about by its 
delicate wrappings. 

“ I have no lover,” she replied quietly. But 
she wondered if love had stirred the heart of 
Miss Millard, that the warm color should so 


6o 


Barclay s Daughter. 


flush upon it at this commonplace speech. “ My 
friends are good to me and thoughtful, Miss 
Millard, but what should I do with a lover? 
Unless it were Dick ! ” she added laughing. “ I 
think that I am very fond of Dick!” 

“ Oh, I don’t mean that sort of a lover ! ” 
replied Miss Millard, also laughing, though the 
color flickered and waved in her face as she in- 
spected with exceeding care a bit of Dick’s 
work. “ Not a boy lover, Anne, but something 
like our old fairy stories, you know, with a 
handsome prince and a handsome sleeping prin- 
cess and all that ! Then the prince comes and the 
princess wakes, and there is happiness in plenty ! 
That is what I mean ! That is what you de- 
serve, Anne Barclay ! Isn’t it, Dick?” 

Dick’s face betrayed somewhat dubious 
thought, and even the charming smile all for 
himself on Miss Millard’s lips could not hasten 
his decision. His pale, pain-touched face was 
in great contrast to the pretty, care-free, almost 
childish face bending above him, and to a de- 
gree his soul was in like contrast with her soul. 

She noticed his delay and shrugged her dainty 
shoulders suggestively. 

“ Perhaps you know very little about fairy 
tales or magic princes, Dick,” she said. “ Now- 


A Softer Heart. 61 

adays our lads and lassies are given tables of 
gold and silver to puzzle over, instead of 
Jack and his wonderful bean-stalk, that literally 
translated means Jack and his determination to 
rise ! They are not wise, Dick ! Fairy stories 
are suited to young minds, and life is rough 
enough at best by and by ! ” 

“ And then you know Anne is a princess,” 
added Dick with a sudden brightening of his 
face and a catch of his breath with the new 
thought, as he leaned forward in this excite- 
ment, his elbows on his knees and his hands 
clasped, outstretched, to emphasize his words. 
“ She is a daughter of the King, you know, 
Miss Millard, an’ if she don’t dress like the fairy 
stories now, some day she shall have a gown 
that is so white it will shine like snow, an’ be 
beautiful always, an’ not have to work so hard 
nor cry because ” 

And there Dick paused. In his small way 
Dick was a prince too, for he was courteous and 
thoughtful of others. To have finished his 
speech about Anne’s father would have been 
breaking his promise never to think hard of 
him, and also would have betrayed to an out- 
sider that which she locked in her own heart. 
So Dick paused ; but Miss Millard knew. 


62 


Barclay s Daughter. 


“And then,” said Anne very calmly, not 
showing the pain in her heart because of her 
father’s wrong doing, “ fairy tales are not so 
suitable for us now as they used to be, Miss 
Millard, when children were kept young and 
did not have to earn their own living away from 
home as they do now, many of them. Now 
all that some parents seem to think of is to 
hurry their children’s growth so that they may 
shiftforthemselves ! But you, andDickandl live 
just as true lives, I am sure, as though fairies did 
our sewing or paper-cutting, or weaving while 
we slept ! Then, too, what I do myself I am sure 
is done right ; I might not trust even a fairy ! ” 

She laughed ; a sweet, low, tender sound 
helpful for one to hear. 

Miss Millard involuntarily held her breath to 
hear, as though she would wish to hear more of 
such music, and then rose uneasily, feeling that 
Barclay’s daughter was miles away from her in 
height of heart and soul. 

Dick’s pale face flushed slightly and glowed 
with pleasure as he caught her laughter. His 
clasped hand relaxed and he resumed his work 
comforted and helped. 

Anne laid aside her sewing and rose with her 
guest. 


A Softer Heart. 


63 


“ I have only to finish this one piece, Miss 
Millard,” she said, with a pretty gesture toward 
the garment she had just laid down, “ and then 
I shall be ready for your work. You do not 
know hou T glad I shall be to have it ! And tell 
your mother for me, please, that I am very 
grateful to her for her kind belief in me ! ” 

Miss Millard nodded. She was not thinking 
of work ; she was pondering over the difference 
in their lives, and wondering if it were possible 
that this girl might have a lover in her station 
as she had in hers. And should this be true, 
would he turn out a copy of her brutish father ? 

“ You may trust mamma’s belief in you,” she 
said absently yet smiling. “ But I was thinking, 
Anne, when I saw those flowers on your stand 
that maybe after all my quiet girl had a lover. 
Flowers mean that, you know ! ” 

“ Do they ?” queried Anne, still quietly though 
there was a touch of color in her face. “ But 
these do not, Miss Millard. Mr. Dean is al- 
ways thoughtful. He passes here every day and 
sent these to me by Dick this morning. That 
is all. He is thoughtful of every one : it is his 
way. He is kind to Dick — and me — and father. 
Isn’t he, Dick ? ” 

Dick nodded emphatically. 


64 


Barclay s Daughter. 


“ Mr. Dean’s al’ays kind,” he said concisely 
but convincingly. “ He asks me ’bout Anne 
’most every day, an’ to-day he give me these for 
her. He said ’t his sister an’ him ’d been out 
by the Park an' gathered a lot. Goldenrod, he 
said, an’ asters — -late flowers. He said ’t his 
sister likes ’em an’ maybe Anne would. He 
didn’t call her ‘ Anne,’ of course. I wouldn’t 
’a’ let him do that, but he spoke nice an’ kind 
an’ said how good it was that I had her for a 
friend. Everybody knows Anne around here, 
you see. But he ain’t Anne’s lover. I know 
he ain’t. If he’d ’a’ loved her don’t you s’pose 
he’d ’a’ telled me? ’Tain’t Mr. Dean’s way to 
be sly ! ” 

A smile crossed Miss Millard’s lips, but she 
checked it instantly. The boy was too earnest 
to be laughed at. There was a flash in Anne’s 
eyes too as they met Miss Millard’s, but it may 
have been tears. 

“ I know Mr. Dean,” Miss Millard said sweet- 
ly, “ though I have never more than spoken to 
him. Papa thinks a good deal of him ; he says 
he is a fine fellow ; I am glad that he is your 
friend, Anne. I shall class him as mine after 
this ! ” 

“ He’s a man,” said Dick championly, “ a man, 


A Softer Heart. 65 

Miss Millard, as it’s good to know. He’s al’ays 
nice to Anne an’ me ! ” 

“ And still,” said Miss Millard archly, pausing 
on the threshold to smile back at this small de- 
fender, “ flowers generally do mean lovers, Dick, 
lad ! But Anne knows ! ” 

“ An’ he’d ’a’ told me,” protested Dick stoutly, 
“ he’d ’a’ told me, Miss Millard, if he loved her.” 
“ Oh ! ” said Miss Millard suggestively. 

But Anne said nothing. What had she to 
say, remembering the scene enacted in that room 
not long before, though no word had passed be- 
tween them regarding it ? but it was in the mind 
of each and a certain restraint rested upon them 
in consequence. Continuing the conversation 
relating to Jim Dean was a piece of bravado on 
Miss Millard’s part, for she knew perfectly well 
that this man was employed in her father’s sa- 
loon, and that Anne’s father was in the habit of 
going there. She did not speak of him from a 
vicious desire to wound the girl, but because her 
conscience would not be silenced and the trouble 
in her heart would be heard. 

Anne felt this, but her calm face hid many 
sore heart-throbs, and even her faithful little 
friend did not know of the wound set aching by 
the careless words. 


66 


Barclay s Daughter. 


When Miss Millard was gone and Anne re- 
turned to her sewing, a streak of sunlight fall- 
ing upon the yellow plumes of the goldenrod in 
the white pitcher upon the stand, Dick’s eyes 
were keenly watching her with a new expression 
in them. Miss Millard’s words rankled and he 
must set them straight. 

As Anne seated herself opposite Dick she 
caught this troubled gaze and smiled. Anne 
could always smile for others. 

“ What is it, Dick dear ? ” she asked gently, 
laying her hand for an instant over his thin 
fingers. She was certain that she knew, but 
could she show her heart even to this warm 
friend ? “ Always when my laddie has that look 

in his eyes his heart is not quiet ! Tell me if 
you can.” 

He lifted his head very proudly and tried to 
straighten his poor, deformed back, but the 
streak of pallor across his face proved that this 
was too much even for his brave spirit. Then, 
after a moment’s silence, he told her his trouble. 

“ Anne, if Mr. Dean loved you he would have 
told me — wouldn’t he ? And he’d tell you ! 
He ain’t told me — ever — yet. And if he had 
told you, you’d ’a’ told me, I know ! Wouldn’t 
you, Anne ?” 


A Softer Heart. 


6 7 


Anne laughed now, softly and sweetly. She 
shook her head, still laughing, and sewed as though 
her life depended upon finishing the garment she 
held. There was the faintest trace of pink in her 
cheeks, and Dick’s quick eyes perceived it. 

“ Miss Millard said 't flowers meant love, an’ 
Mr. Dean did send ’em to you, Anne ; but he 
didn’t say ’t he sent ’em because he loved you ! 
He’d ’a’ told me if he had thought it. He only 
said ’t you might like ’em, an’ that it was nice to 
have you for my friend. How does Miss Mil- 
lard know? I don’t like her, Anne. She says 
so many things ” 

A slim white finger on Anne’s lips warned 
him into silence, and Anne’s sweet, grieved 
voice hushed the rebellion in his heart. 

“ Be careful, Dick dear ! Miss Millard meant 
no harm ; what she said was because she wished 
to be pleasant to us. She said herself that she 
knows nothing about Mr. Dean except that he 
is employed by her father and is faithful. And 
flowers mean kind thought and friendship as 
well as love, Dick. Rest assured that Mr. Dean 
has no more thought of love for me than I for 
him, and you know, laddie, that he could never 
be anything to me — he or any one — while he 
holds the position he does. 


68 


Barclay s Daughter. 


“ So, now you are to put away all such 
thoughts, and remember only that Miss Millard 
does not look at the world with our eyes, and 
that Mr. Dean is only kindly thoughtful of our 
pleasure when he gives us flowers. I am very 
glad to have this sewing from Mrs. Millard. It 
will be a wonderful help toward winter com- 
forts.” 

Usually Anne’s wish was law with the boy, 
but now he had been too deeply touched to be 
easily appeased. He wished positive proof that 
there was only friendship between this friend of 
his and the other, and he had none. 

For some time he was very quiet, bending in- 
dustriously over his work, but the pucker be- 
tween his brows remained and a strange stern- 
ness grew about his mouth. And after a while 
he spoke. Hesitatingly, for he feared Anne’s 
anger, and in a thin undertone lest her father, 
returning, should overhear. For Dick was in 
deadly terror of John Barclay. 

“ Anne ! ” 

“Yes, Dick.” 

“You ain’t to think me impertinent, Anne, 
nor to say ’tain’t none of my business, ’cause 
it is when it concerns you ! Don’t think any- 
thin’ but that I love you an’ couldn’t bear to 


A Softer Heart. 


69 


have you hurt. But, Anne ! If maybe Miss 
Millard does know for sure that flowers do mean 
love, an’ Mr. Dean, he sent you these for that, 
you wouldn’t ever — ever — ever marry him, 
would you, Anne, remembering what he is an’ 
what he might be if he keeps on. so ? I couldn’t 
bear it, Anne, to have you hurt so — I couldn’t, 
truly.” 

Straight from his heart came every thin, rapid 
word, she knew. Love for her and thought for 
her future good prompted the speech ; she knew 
that also. But it was a daring speech after all, 
hinting as it did that this man might be what 
her father was, and for a moment the deadly 
pallor of her face and its gathering sternness 
frightened the boy. His hands were clasped in 
eager entreaty for her to understand his motive 
for speaking as he had done, and his face, too, 
was pale and quivering with the swift heart- 
throbs pulsing the words. His large eyes grew 
still larger, resting immovably upon her, waiting 
for her anger or her assurance of no ill. 

But he should have known Anne Barclay bet- 
ter than to have ever feared her. He told him- 
self this afterward. 

Anne conquered her anger almost immediate- 
ly ; for just at first she was angry, and remem- 


JO Barclay s Daughter. 

brance of what her father was and how impos- 
sible it was for such a boy as Dick Chester to 
see such things as he had seen when her father 
was mad with drink, without just this horror of 
the evil, softened all thought save gratitude for 
such a warm friend and defender of her happi- 
ness. 

Still she must not allow him to utter such 
words implying disrespect for her father; she 
must simply convince him that there could be 
nothing between herself and Mr. Dean but 
thoughtful kindness upon his part and apprecia- 
tion of this on hers. It was absurd to talk of 
love to her. And as for marrying — why, she 
should never marry. Her duty was with her 
father, and she could expect no one to be so 
lenient toward him as herself, certainly she could 
never ask for such concession on the part of any 
other. Jim Dean was nothing to her; desired 
to be nothing to her; could be nothing! 

Dick’s pale little face touched her deeply as 
she looked down upon it when she had over- 
come her anger and could answer him. She 
leaned forward with a sudden impulse and took 
it between her hands, smiling into his frightened 
eyes. After one swift instant of doubt, Dick 
smiled back at her, and she was fully repaid for 


A Softer Heart. 71 

any struggle she had endured to conquer her 
first impulse of anger. 

“ My little lad, Anne has never told you what 
was not so in all her life. What I have told 
you of this is the truth. Dick dear, do you not 
know that there could be nothing between a 
man who sells liquor — or takes it — and myself ? 
Laddie, the Wise Book says : ‘ Out of the 
abundance of the heart the mouth speaketh.’ In 
the bitterness and sorrow of my heart I tell you 
true of this. You need not fear for me !” 

Mr. Millard’s plan for his daughter was work- 
ing well. As he sat with his wife one evening in 
their luxurious sitting-room he expressed his 
satisfaction. 

“ Really, Mary, I did not think that our plan 
would succeed so well as it has regarding our 
two young people ! ” 

Mr. Millard stretched his slippered feet upon 
the fender, leaning back in his reclining-chair 
with the air of a man perfectly satisfied with 
himself and the world generally. He had been 
reading a newspaper, and rustled it upon his 
knee as he talked with his wife, waiting for her 
reply. 

Mrs. Millard was never hasty in replying. She 
considered what she should say before she spoke. 


72 Barclay s Daughter. 

She was not one to be caught by foolish words. 
She did not now at once answer her husband. 
She had agreed with him in the match between 
their daughter and young Cartwright, but there 
were many twists and counter-currents in love 
matters which perhaps her husband disregarded ; 
and a hasty decision by an outsider would be 
unwise. 

She had been her daughter’s confidante to a 
degree, but, being a woman herself, she knew 
that her daughter did not tell her all that was in 
her heart. What woman would ? So she sat 
silent for a few moments, her hands languidly 
moving in the midst of a film of lace which she 
was making, as she pondered what she should 
say. She knew that her husband waited her 
answer, and she was in no hurry to give it. 

“ Minnie has a warm heart,” she said present- 
ly in a voice which her husband found difficult 
to analyze. But then her husband often found 
his wife a trying subject to comprehend. This 
speech of hers regarding their daughter might 
mean many things. He frowned, and moved 
his feet impatiently upon the fender. “ I think 
that we may depend upon her decision, Harry ; 
but a girl’s heart is a curious affair.” 

“ Fiddlesticks ! ” retorted her husband some- 


A Softer Heart. 


73 


what testily. “ What has a girl’s heart to do 
with this, pray? You speak as though we in- 
tended selling off our daughter like a white slave ! 
You know, and she knows as well, that I would 
not for all the gold in the world have her marry 
a man whom she did not wish to marry ! I wish 
her heart to go out to Cartwright because he is 
such a fine fellow, but if it hasn’t and she cannot 
fancy him, what could I do to force her to marry 
him — I, who care as much for our girl as any 
father could? You talk in riddles, my dear. 
Minnie surely could never hold such a thought 
in her mind.” 

Mrs. Millard smiled calmly upon her rather 
excited husband. Mrs. Millard understood their 
daughter much better than did her husband. 
Their wish was the same as a given law to their 
daughter. She would do her part toward caring 
for young Cartwright because they desired it ! 
Her mother knew that. 

“ She knows of course that neither of us thinks 
of her in connection with trade, Harry,” she said 
in her sweet, cool voice. “ I know that she likes 
young Cartwright. Love is another thing, but 
I believe that we need not fear for that. He cer- 
tainly shows her very marked attentions.” 

“ Where have they gone to-night ? To the 


74 


Barclay s Daughter. 

Hartwell ball ? I know that I had a pretty 
large dry-goods bill to meet yesterday, so I 
guessed that it must be this grand affair ! ” 

Mr. Millard spoke jovially. He never made 
any objection to their bills. 

“ It is the Hartwell ball, of course,” said Mrs. 
Millard, in smiling reply. She understood her 
husband’s humors better than he did himself. 
“ I really think, Harry, that you should be con- 
gratulated upon your plan and its success so far. 
Young Mr. Cartwright was her escort, of course. 
She looked very beautiful. At first she was fa- 
tigued after driving this afternoon and her numer- 
ous calls, but a glass of wine brightened her up 
wonderfully, and she went off looking like her 
usual self.” 

A slight frown touched her husband’s genial 
face. His eyes for a moment searched her face 
keenly. Then he said rather more sharply than 
he generally addressed her: 

“ I hope, Mary, that you do not too often re- 
sort to liquor to refresh Minnie when she is fa- 
tigued. It is a stimulant, you know, and she is 
too young to need such to any extent. Her 
young blood should refresh itself with rest.” 

Mrs. Millard shrugged her handsome shoul- 
ders, and elevated her brows in surprise. 


A Softer Heart. 


75 


“ I scarcely think that I understand you, Har- 
ry,” she said coldly, and her cold eyes made him 
uncomfortable as they met his own. “ Do you 
mean that you fear my judgment in caring for 
our daughter’s health ? Do you insinuate that 
you fear I may make her a drunkard ? ” 

Mr. Millard compressed his lips sternly as 
though the word hurt him, and rustled the paper 
with considerable force as he crossed one leg over 
the other knee. 

“ I mean that I should regret more than words 
can tell, should our daughter grow to be depend- 
ent upon wine or any such stimulant for her wit 
and bright eyes,” he said steadily and sternly. 
“ You might not think of the dangerous conse- 
quences of a glass of wine upon every occasion 
of exhaustion, Mary. If such a curse ever should 
fall upon me after the care I have taken to be 
always honorable, it would be my death blow ! 
There would be nothing left for me to live for. 
I should not care to live ! ” 

He was very bitter, very sad and stern. Mrs. 
Millard was startled out of her usual calm by 
his voice and manner. She was considerably dis- 
turbed, too, but she would not betray this to him. 

“ I never give Minnie one drop too much of 
any stimulant,” she said quietly ; “ and there is 


76 Barclay's Daughter. 

no need for you to go off on the heroics because 
she had one glass of wine before leaving home 
to-night ! ” 

“No doubt I was foolish,” acknowledged her 
husband gently. “ Surely I may trust you, my 
dear, with the happiness of our daughter, when 
for so many years you have made my happiness ! 
It is simply a rather sore subject with me, that 
is all. We will forget it at once. There are 
more pleasant things to talk about than that, 
and we live as nearly right as one can.” 

But Mr. Millard would not have been so well 
satisfied with his wife and himself in their treat- 
ment of their daughter, could he have known 
that when Minnie returned, wearied, from the 
ball she went at once to the little closet where 
her wine was kept, and poured out a brimming 
glass. 

“ I am so very, very tired,” she said to herself 
in excuse for this, Anne Barclay’s face suddenly 
startling her memory as she lifted the glass red 
with the wine and the false strength she craved. 
“ Mamma always gives it me when I am so tired 
and it rests me. Besides I shall need something 
to make me sleep after the excitement of this 
evening. The grandest ball I ever attended and 
the loveliest time ! ” 


A Softer Heart. 


77 


She replaced the bottle and glass and turned 
to her dressing-case, her eyes once more bright 
with the effect of the wine. 

“ Why should I let that Anne Baiclay come 
forever between myself and my inclinations and 
actions ? What is she to me ? ” 


CHAPTER V. 


ROCKY FORMATION. 

“ So when a raging fever burns, 

We shift from side to side by turns, 

And ’tis a poor relief we gain 
To change the place, but keep the pain.” 

— Watts. 

“ Inform Mr. Cartwright that I shall be ready 
in one moment, Suzette,” said Minnie Millard to 
her maid in her happy, sweetly modulated voice 
as she patted down an unruly crinkle in her hair, 
now on her forehead, now loosened from the 
coil at the back of her head, as she poised before 
the mirror in her pretty driving costume. 

“Yes, Miss Minnie,” murmured Suzette with 
an admiring backward glance at the charming 
little figure before the mirror, as she immedi- 
ately obeyed her command, passing from the 
room. 

“And now,” said Minnie when her maid was 
gone, as she finished her toilette satisfactorily 
and turned from the mirror, “just to sort of 
brighten myself and keep from fatigue a glass of 
(78) 


Rocky Formation. 


79 


wine is what I need. At least mamma advised 
it the last time I went out driving with Mr. 
Cartwright, and of course mamma knows!” 

She laughed softly as she lightly crossed the 
room to her tiny medicine closet, and reached 
down a bottle and glass. Pouring out a full 
glass she lifted it daintily, and drank the contents 
as though it were in truth most pleasant medi- 
cine. Then she replaced the glass and left the 
room, a charming figure charmingly arrayed. 

Young Mr. Cartwright was waiting for her, 
standing on the pavement beside the carriage, 
and as she appeared in the doorway he went for- 
ward to meet her, lifting his hat and reaching 
out his hand to assist her down the granite steps 
and into the waiting carriage. There was warm 
color in her face and her eyes were brilliant and 
flashing, looking into his shyly, as she followed 
his guidance. She smiled, too, as though she 
were half afraid of granting him too much grace, 
and noting all this, young Cartwright congratu- 
lated himself upon his steady common sense in 
choosing this woman for his wife. 

“ A pretty good match for me,” he said to 
himself as he seated himself beside Minnie and 
took up the reins his groom was holding, the 
fine team of horses pricking their ears, alert to 


8o 


Barclay s Daughter. 


go, at his lightest touch. “ I shall ask her to- 
day to marry me.” 

Acting up to this decision he was particularly 
fascinating in conversation, and made himself so 
altogether charming that pretty little Minnie 
Millard fell easily into the net, and gave him a 
happy affirmative answer when at last he ques- 
tioned her of her love for him. And so, know- 
ing the desire of her parents, he knew that he 
had won her, and his plans were drifting easily 
with the tide ! 

The day was beautiful ; the roads in excellent 
condition ; the horses were perfect animals and 
perfectly matched. 

Minnie Millard and Tom Cartwright, meeting 
many friends upon the road, were envied for 
their good fortune, each unconsciously congrat- 
ulated because of the presence of the other. For 
Mr. Tom Cartwright was a fine young fellow 
and of fair fortune, while Millard’s daughter was 
all that a daughter should be, and her dower 
would be such as no sensible man would scorn. 

The day was beautiful, and the horses, travel- 
ing at a hard trot, were under perfect control 
until, turning a curve in the Park, a yellow par- 
asol twirled by a careless hand made them mad 
with terror. There was a snort, a wild plunge 


Rocky Formation. 


8l 


far to one side, and the frail carriage was whirled 
like a feather weight along the road to end in 
disaster unless speedily stopped. 

A crowd gathered and followed. Crowds 
gather quickly at such times. A Park police- 
man, standing beside his horse, saw the runaway 
as it whirled in sight, and springing to his saddle, 
was off and away to the rescue. 

But his effort was too late. The terrified 
animals were beyond control, and although 
young Cartwright held the reins in a powerful 
grasp, and spoke commandingly and quietly to 
them they were too excited and terrified to hear 
or heed. 

Minnie was white and frightened, but would 
not hinder her companion by clinging to him as 
washer first impulse ; she sat swaying beside him 
in the wild race, one hand grasping the seat rail, 
the other keeping fast hold of the lap robe as 
though she might so keep a firm hold of her self- 
command. 

A terrible couple of minutes or so — not long, 
yet seeming an eternity to those two actors in 
the hurried scene. The officer was almost upon 
them, had wheeled his horse across the road pre- 
pared to grasp the bridles and run them down to 
a stop, when, still mad with fear, distrusting 


82 Barclay s Daughter. 

everything in their path, the runaways suddenly 
reared and plunged and dashed aside beyond the 
reach of the daring horseman, and dragged the 
carriage recklessly over the turf of the Mall, and 
stopped only when the wheels were crushed 
against a tree and their tangled harness hindered 
further running. 

The carriage was completely demolished ; the 
wheels upon one side were torn away and the 
body fallen forward hurled the occupants from 
their seats. Cartwright fell, but was up again 
after a moment of stunned pain. He bruised 
his shoulder and slightly sprained his arm. 

As for poor little Minnie, she was less fortu- 
nate. She felt the full shock of the accident, 
being thrown so as to strike the body of the tree 
and hurled so back upon the wreck of the car- 
riage. She was most tenderly raised and made 
as comfortable as circumstances permitted, until 
a carriage could be summoned to take her home. 
One arm was broken and she was so injured 
about her shoulders and head, as to be utterly 
unconscious until they had her upon her own 
bed at home, and the family physician was at- 
tending her. 

It was no one’s fault, every one said, and young 
Cartwright acted nobly in forgetting his own 


Rocky Formation . 


83 

pain to care for his companion, but it was a se- 
rious case, the physician said, and it would take 
time to tell the real extent of injury. There might 
be internal injuries of which he could not know 
at once. But all that was possible under the 
circumstances should be done for her to alleviate 
her suffering. The broken arm — the poor, pretty 
white arm so dimpled and soft — was set, and 
everything possible done and an anodyne admin- 
istered to induce sleep and lessen pain. 

“ For quietness and sleep are what she will , 
need most at present,” the physician said as he 
turned from the sick-room with Mrs. Millard. 
The shock was terrible to the mother, but she 
possessed wonderful power of self-command, and 
only the pallor of her face betrayed her own suf- 
fering. “To-morrow I hope to find her im- 
proved, although I shall not make false promises, 
madame. And I shall send a nurse to you at 
once. She needs constant professional atten- 
tion.” 

“ She is seriously injured, you think, doctor?” 

Mrs. Millard’s voice was as quiet in speaking 
as though it were the most trivial matter she 
would decide, but the man beside her knew that 
she suffered. 

“ She is seriously injured, yes, Mrs. Millard, 


8 4 


Barclay s Daughter. 


but I hope not dangerously so. You must not 
worry. We will do all that we can.” 

And when the physician called the following 
day he found his patient indeed very quiet, al- 
though more feverish than he could have ex- 
pected. 

“ She was so restless in the night,” Mrs. Mil- 
lard said, in explanation, as she met the doctor 
after leaving her daughter’s room, “ that the 
nurse and I agreed that she would perhaps sleep 
better for a little brandy. She went to sleep 
very soon after drinking it, and we have kept 
her quiet in this way since then. Do you not 
think that it was well ? ” 

The physician frowned in displeasure ; then 
with quick courtesy he smiled gravely. 

“ It certainly cannot hurt her,” he said, “even 
if it cannot cure her, Mrs. Millard, if you are 
careful not to give her too much. Too much 
would tend to increase fever and excitement 
when quiet is an absolute necessity with her. 
But I may safely trust you and the nurse to see 
that she has no more than is good, for her. 
Good-morning, madame.” 

“ For,” he added to himself as he entered his 
carriage at the steps, the frown again upon his 
face, “ it is not probable that her mother would 


Rocky Formation. 


35 


allow her to have what is injurious to her. A 
mother is a mother everywhere. Liquor is ex- 
cellent in its way, as Millard has proved, but if I 
thought that they would harm her with it,” the 
frown deepened and his gaze was strangely con- 
tracted. “ If I thought that they would, I should 
not allow one drop of liquor to pass her lips ! 
But pshaw!” He shrugged his shoulders in- 
credulously. “ Is that at all probable ?” 

Nevertheless he shook his head doubtfully 
when he saw the condition of Millard’s daughter 
on the following morning. She had been in a 
half stupor during the night, they told him, and 
had considerable fever, but was not restless if they 
took the precaution to administer a small dose 
of brandy at the first sign of uneasiness. 

Her face was flushed rather than pale and she 
breathed heavily. The physician was considera- 
bly discomposed by these appearances. Outside 
of the natural fever that would rise from the 
shock and injury, the indications troubled him. 
The flush and stupor would not rise from these 
alone. 

He shook his head. 

“ She is getting on as well as can be expected,” 
he said gravely, “ with the exception of this 
stupor. If she grows restless again, give her the 


86 


Barclay s Daughter. 


prescription I shall leave, but nothing else, to in- 
duce sleep, and I think she will do nicely. If 
you give her brandy for a tonic, give her only a 
half a glassful night and morning ; that may 
help on her strength, but no more than that 
amount, as it tends to increase fever, as I feared. 
And above all, let her have perfect quiet.” 

The nurse had firm faith in the efficiency of 
liquor, but she knew that she must follow the 
physician’s orders unless in an extreme case 
where there was no time to send for advice. She 
therefore promised faithful obedience to these 
commands, telling herself that she would use her 
own judgment, however, in the administration 
of the brandy. If a full glass induced quiet where 
a half glass would not, she should follow her own 
common sense about leaving her patient to toss 
restlessly or sleep with the aid of her own pre- 
scription. 

She said nothing of this decision, even to Mrs. 
Millard ; she would take the responsibility upon 
herself. Rest was essential, and rest the patient 
should have. 

“ We could expect little improvement to-day,” 
Dr. Farjeon said, in reply to Mrs. Millard’s anx- 
ious inquiries regarding her daughter’s condition. 
“ She is very weak and the least thing excites 


Rocky Formation. 


87 


her and heightens the fever. It will take time 
to give her back her old strength, and we can do 
nothing but see that she has the best of care and 
whatever will tone the nerves and remove the 
shock from the system. I have ordered less 
brandy, Mrs. Millard, and think that you will 
see the advantage very soon. Too much liquor 
is worse than no stimulant. It excites momen- 
tarily rather than it gives permanent strength.” 

“ We gave her really very little,” said Mrs. 
Millard in considerable displeasure. She was 
not so sensitive as her husband upon this subject 
of liquor, but she would allow no one to insinu- 
ate that she used it, or allowed it to be used care- 
lessly in her house ! “ She was restless without it, 
doctor. It was well for her to have it under 
those circumstances, was it not ? ” 

“ We will see how she is to-morrow,” said the 
physician, evasively. 

“And poor Mr. Cartwright?” queried Mrs. 
Millard regretfully. “ He received worse injury 
than at first he knew, did he not ? ” 

“ Mr. Cartwright was injured severely but not 
seriously, madame,” Dr. Farjeon replied. Like 
most professional men he did not wish to make 
too full confession. “ I left him in comparative 
comfort last night. I shall go there from here. 


88 


Barclay s Daughter. 


If you wish to send him any message I shall be 
pleased to deliver it.” 

“ You are so kind,” said Mrs. Millard in re- 
covered good humor and kindness of heart. “ If 
you will tell him how much we regret his illness 
I shall be so indebted to you, doctor. And tell 
him we hope to see him here as soon as he is 
able to go about. I trust that you will be able 
to give a better report upon both cases to-mor- 
row. Mr. Cartwright is a fine young man and 
we need all such.” 

The physician bowed as he turned away. 

“ ‘ Whom the gods love,’ but after all there 
is other cause if the good — or bad — die young, 
Mrs. Millard,” he said. “ We will save all such 
if we can, be sure.” 

“ But rather come death to them all,” he 
finished to himself as he rode away from the 
door, “ than to look as their daughter does this 
morning in her young beauty with the fire of 
liquor in her blood.” 

But the days wore on, and for a week there 
was no sign of improvement, scarcely change 
in any way for Millard’s daughter, save it were a 
little less of that feverish stupor, though still 
there was stupor, and still her lips and cheeks 
were red with the dull red from unnatural causes. 


Rocky Formation. 89 

The physician frowned and felt that his orders 
were not obeyed ; yet, still very smoothly and 
positively, the mother and the nurse affirmed 
that the patient had the brandy only as he pre- 
scribed. The broken arm was doing well ; all 
other injuries had been decided upon and were 
carefully treated ; and still the pretty eyes were 
always heavy and the pretty face flushed and 
vacant when the doctor made his daily call. 

Very trying this was to him, for, believing in 
the moderate use of liquor for medicinal pur- 
poses, yet, feeling that this helpless girl on the 
threshold of womanhood was forced to lie for 
hours under its influence without her own 
knowledge, he wished from the bottom of his 
heart that there had never come into the world 
such evil. For Dr. Farjeon, though a worldly 
man, was a man of heart and conscience. 

“ If she is to live with this habit formed for 
her during her own irresponsibility, and formed 
for her by her mother, I prefer seeing her waste 
away daily before our eyes. What bitter, bitter 
fruition it would be for her father. No better 
man than Harry Millard is in the world to-day.” 

And indeed death were better, her father 
groaned inwardly when first he was admitted 
into the sick-room, and realized that the pretty, 


9 o 


Barclay s Daughter. 


stupid face upon the pillows was the face of his 
daughter, vacant of true womanly consciousness 
from the influence of the liquor which he sold. 

“The heavens be merciful to her!” he mur- 
mured, pacing his room for hours afterward, re- 
calling over and over the scene where his 
daughter — his daughter — lay on the white pil- 
lows with her pretty eyes half closed, not recog- 
nizing him, and the soft, flushed cheeks, and lips 
apart in vacant half smiling. “ May the Lord 
remember her innocence and that my sin — if it 
is sin — is my own, not hers, not to be punished 
through her ! ” 

His sorrow was terrible. Had the future 
lifted its curtain for him to catch a glimpse of 
what lay ahead — a yawning gulf at his daughter’s 
feet, — his daughter, who should not be punished 
for his sin ? 

“ They tell us that God is good ! ” he groaned, 
pacing back and forth. “ He cannot be good, 
He cannot be kind or merciful should He allow 
her to suffer for me ! I have done no inten- 
tional wrong to any man. I open my purse to 
all who are in need. Is this my sin ?” 


CHAPTER VI. 


IN THE FIELDS. 

“ Truly the light is sweet, and a pleasant thing it is for the 
eyes to behold the sun.” — Bible. 

“ Dick ! ” said Anne softly. 

It was Sunday afternoon, and these two were 
sitting together at one of the windows talking 
over the morning’s lesson between short read- 
ings from the boy’s library book. Barclay went 
out immediately after the plain little dinner, 
with the unquestioned assurance that he would 
not return until night, and Anne and Dick — for 
Dick spent always a part of his Sunday after- 
noons with Anne — were alone. This was their 
only day of rest and quiet. 

“ Dick ! ” said Anne. 

“Yes, Anne,” replied Dick with grave atten- 
tion. He knew from her tone that it was not 
of tho lesson nor of the book she would speak. 

“You know that Miss Millard is very sick, 
laddie, and she has been kind to us. I have 
heard that one can find such flowers as Mr. 

(91) 


92 


Barclay s Daughter. 


Dean gave you, away out on the road beyond 
the Park. It is so very little we can do to show 
how sorry we are that Miss Millard is sick, that 
perhaps she would be pleased even if we could 
do no more than go out there and gather some 
of these flowers for her. She knows that we 
have no flowers and cannot afford to buy from 
the hothouses, and she would appreciate our de- 
sire to do something for her, I am sure. It is 
good to be remembered, Dick, when one is 
sick.” 

“ Yes,” said Dick thoughtfully. He knew that 
it was heavenly good for him to have Anne 
to come to when he had the deadly pain in his 
back, and there was no one else to whom he 
could tell his suffering save her and God ! 
“ But you could never walk all that way, Anne ! 
It is a long, long, long way ! Marm took me 
out there once in the cars, and it was a good 
bit of riding. You never could walk there ! It 
wouldn’t hurt me to walk twice as far,” hurried 
on the little fellow, fearing lest she should think 
that it was of himself he thought, “ but you 
couldn’t, you know. I’ll tell Miss Millard that 
you wanted to, and she’ll understand ; or I’ll 
ask Mr. Dean to get ’em for you. I know that 
he would.” 


In the Fields. 


93 


Anne shook her head, smiling. 

“ It will not hurt me, Dick,” she said, and 
there was a fine light upon her face that made 
her very beautiful in the boy’s eyes. “ I shall 
like to go. We so seldom have the opportu- 
nity to do even that little for any one that it 
will do us both good. It will not be wicked to 
go if it is Sunday,” she added, seeing the boy’s 
hesitation, “ for we are told by the Good Book, 
Dick, to do good on the Sabbath day, and it is 
surely well to remember the sick. If we get 
tired we can take a car. I think that I can 
afford to spend a few pennies for that.” 

“ But Mr. Dean would get ’em for you and 
we could take ’em to her jest the same,” still 
argued Dick with his eager eyes upon her light- 
ed face. For Dick was longing to go. “ I 
don’t mind askin’ him, Anne. I know he would 
do it ! ” 

“ I have no doubt of that,” said Anne in her 
steady, sweet voice, “ but I prefer getting them 
ourselves, Dick. It will do us both good ; you 
have not been out lately, and the air will give 
you rosy cheeks and eyes all ready for a good 
night’s sleep when we come home. Come, Dick. 
Father will not return until late and we shall 
have plenty of time.” 


94 Barclay s Daughter. 

So Dick, finding it useless to argue and really 
longing to go, only nodded his acquiescence and 
waited for her to dress for their walk. 

The day was beautiful but cold, with late 
autumn winds whirling down the streets and up 
from the alleys, blowing Anne’s dress wildly 
about her and beating warm rose in her pale 
thin cheeks, and new light in her dark eyes, 
while Dick, hurrying beside her with his little 
crooked back, and grave face upraised, felt new 
blood along his veins in the wild weather. 

They chatted as they walked, Dick asking in- 
numerable questions and Anne answering them 
as well as she knew, many passers-by turning to 
look after them, wondering who they were — the 
girl with the sweet, thin face, and the boy with 
eloquent eyes — while others, knowing, stopped 
to speak to them, giving them good-day and 
good wishes for their walk. 

It was a long walk. Had the wind been less 
brisk or invigorating they would have been ex- 
ceedingly fatigued. As it was they went but 
slowly, pausing often to rest, and talking of 
what was pleasant to lessen the distance. One 
house which they passed pleased Anne espe- 
cially, and she told her pleasure to her com- 
panion. It was a small, two-story house, with 


In the Fields. 


95 


a piazza surrounding it and tiny bay-windows 
and an upper balcony, and vines now stripped 
of leaves and brown, reaching up and up even 
to the chimneys and swaying in the strong 
winds. There was not much ground around it ; 
just a square of lawn, level and clean, and a 
small garden at the back, with trees enough for 
shade and sunlight ; open spaces for health. 

“A pretty house,” said Anne, her eyes bright- 
ening. “ There are handsome houses all along, 
Dick, but this suits me better than any of them ! 
We shall model ours after it when we get our 
fortunes, wont we, laddie ?” 

Dick nodded gravely with a long, searching 
look up into her animated face. He was cling- 
ing fast to her hand as they walked along and 
they were a strange pair. 

“And didn’t you know?” he queried in his 
thin, piping voice, very gravely. “ Didn’t Mr. 
Dean ever tell you, Anne? He lives here — 
he, and his marm and sister ! It’s their own 
house that they’ve lived in forever and ever ! 
He said so. He told me — I should ’a’ thought 
he’d ’a’ told you ! Ain’t it a lovely place ? It 
must be beautiful to live here. If only he 
didn’t do what he does ” 

Anne interrupted him with no apparent haste. 


96 


Barclay s Daughter. 


“ It is a pretty place, Dick. When we grow 
rich, you know,” her smile was bright and 
touched her face wonderfully, “ we are to have 
one just like it ! Father would be very happy 
here, wouldn’t he ? ” 

“ And you,” said Dick with quiet positiveness, 
though he was not so certain that she could be 
happy anywhere so long as her father lived his 
reckless life. He would not have her know that 
this thought was in his mind and his voice be- 
trayed no doubt. 

So they walked on in silence for a few min- 
utes, and after a long, long time they passed the 
Park and came out into the open fields where 
the goldenrod should be. 

But Anne knew nothing of flowers save that 
they were sweet and good to see and have about 
one ; but her life left no time for their cultiva- 
tion had she been at liberty to spend her money 
for them ; and it was late for any flowers, 
even the hardiest ! They were woefully disap- 
pointed. This ending to their walk they had 
not considered. Mr. Dean had sent Anne flow- 
ers gathered there a week or so before, and that 
there should be none now would have seemed 
absurd to them if they had been told, and had 
not seen the bare brown fields themselves with 


In the Fields. 


97 


only faded yellowish white puffs drifting by 
from the stalks, where the royal golden plumes 
had waved so gallantly i 

In the first moment of their disappointment 
tears sprang to Anne’s eyes as she stood on the 
border of the fields with Dick’s hand close 
clasped in hers, vainly searching for the flowers 
they would have carried to their friend. Then 
Anne turned aside and found a large rock where 
they could sit and rest, sheltered from the 
cold wind before starting upon their way 
home. 

Rather a dreary scene with the wind in the 
long dead grasses and tumbling the vines strug- 
gling for their hold to the walls. Nevertheless, 
Anne with her appreciative eyes caught the 
beauty of even that wild scene with the mad 
wind and scurrying leaves and down-driven 
grasses. The sky was blue and the lower stretch 
of field and wood — was it not most effective in 
dull browns and white ? 

They were shielded from observation from 
passers on the street, and the few who crossed 
beside the fields if they turned to look after 
them, whispered softly of the girl’s frail beauty 
and the lad’s so strangely aged face ! 

By and by, after a long silence filled with 


9 8 


Barclay s Daughter. 


thought, Anne stirred with a faint sigh and 
turned to her companion. 

“ Come, Dick,” she said, and smiled, looking 
down upon him ; “ it is chilly here ; we must 
go. I fear you will take cold. And then,” just 
the faintest perceptible pause and the lowest 
change of voice, “ father will come home and 
find me gone unless we do make haste!” 

“ I’m ready,” answered Dick cheerily, knowing 
how sad her face had been a few moments before, 
meeting her smile with as bright a one. “ I’m 
real strong, Anne, and I won’t take cold nor get 
tired ; but you ain’t strong, you know. And,” 
the same strange hesitation on his part in utter- 
ing the words, “as you say, your father will 
come home maybe and be mad if you ain’t 
there ! But ain’t it been nice — cornin’ here, 
Anne?” 

“ Beautiful,” replied Anne absently, as she 
rose with downcast eyes and held out her hand 
to Dick. 

But Dick had turned with a flush of half 
pleasure, half resentment upon his grave face, 
and drew himself as erect as his poor deformed 
back would allow, swift pride for Anne in his 
steady eyes as a lady and gentleman came near. 

“ Oh,” he said slowly, looking from the new- 


In the Fields. 


99 


comers to Anne, “ is it you, Mr. Dean ? Have 
you come for flowers? We’ve been lookin’ for 
’em — Anne an’ me — and they’re all dead ! ” 

“ I hope we haven’t disturbed you ! ” said Mr. 
Dean courteously, presenting his sister, a bright- 
eyed, pretty young girl whose soft brown hair was 
blowing in tiny rings upon her forehead under 
the pretty hat. There were deep dimples at the 
corners of her mouth, too, that made one, watch- 
ing her, involuntarily smile ; and so it was that 
Anne, giving her one slim, gloved hand, smiled 
back into this charming face and told herself it 
was good to have for a sister such a girl as this ! 

“ I am sure that you are going home,” said 
Miss Dean mischievously, as she drew Anne’s 
hand under her arm as though she were 
an old and well-loved friend. “Jim and I saw 
you from the other end of the field, and came 
down in a dreadful hurry to meet you before you 
could go away, because,” she patted lightly the 
hand upon her arm, “ I have so long wanted to 
know you, Miss Barclay. Jim tells mamma and 
me about those he knows, and of course he has 
spoken of you and Dick. Dick, you see, is 
friends right away with Jim ! Everybody is. 
I’m proud of my brother, Miss Barclay ; he’s so 
good to mamma and me ! Aren’t you sorry you 


IOO 


Barclay s Daughter. 


haven’t a nice brother to go to when things run 
crooked sometimes? Jim is my chum, you 
know ; I tell him all my little confidences, and 
in return he tells me about his friends, and lets 
me meet them if I am very, very good. So, of 
course he told me about you and Dick. I shall 
like Dick. I like you. I want you to come 
and see us the very first time you can. We have 
the tiniest mite of a house, but we have a good 
time in it ! I was born there, Miss Barclay ! 
Of course I couldn’t care so much for any other 
home as that ! And if you will, I want you to 
go in when we get down there and meet mam- 
ma. You’ll like her, too. I hope you will like 
me, but I know you’ll like mamma. You sim- 
ply could not help it ! Jim and I do !” 

She laughed the softest, merriest ripple of 
laughter, and Anne could not resist joining in 
it. In fact, Anne felt that she was not quite 
Anne Barclay, but some other, happier creature 
in this girl’s presence ! 

£ ‘ And you came away out here for flowers 
and found none ! ” continued Miss Dean in her 
pretty voice as she walked on ahead of Jim Dean 
and Dick. “ Never mind, Miss Barclay ; we 
have a mite of a conservatory, and when we stop 
at home you shall have your own choice of 


In the Fields. 


IOI 


flowers, if we haven’t such an immense variety ! 
They are almost as good as the wild flowers, and, 
anyway, you can make them do ! ” 

“ You are so kind,” said Anne softly. This 
girl was so unlike Miss Millard ; so bright and 
wholesome and true. Miss Millard was always 
kind to Anne, but she let her know that her 
position was far beneath her own. Miss Dean 
did not. To be sure she was not above the 
middle class, but it was a sweet, spontaneous 
courtesy that proved the nobility of character 
and her claim to the title of proud womanhood. 

“ And here comes our car,” here interrupted 
Mr. Dean, joining them with Dick in eager 
friendship. 

So it was that in the most matter-of-fact man- 
ner Anne Barclay and Dick entered the charm- 
ing little home that they so admired a couple of 
hours before, and were welcomed as warmly, if 
less enthusiastically, as the daughter could desire. 
And when they left a half-hour later, — for Anne 
would not be persuaded to stay to tea, urging as 
her excuse her need to be at ht>me upon her fa- 
ther’s return, — they carried with them a bouquet 
of fragrant house-flowers for Miss Millard and 
also fragrant memories of those new friends so 
strangely set in their lives. 


102 Barclay's Daughter. 

As they entered the gateway to Mr. Millard’s 
handsome estate Dick held his breath with ad- 
miration, his. quick eyes noting the beauties as 
swiftly as Anne’s. 

“ Oh,” he murmured in an undertone, “ ain’t 
this grand, Anne ! Ain’t it beautiful ! But, 
after all,” a sigh and a wistful upward glance into 
her face, “ I think I like Mr. Dean’s best ! It’s 
more homelike, you know ! I shouldn’t dare 
more’n breathe here, but there it’s as though 
they jest made the house to laugh in ! And I 
can’t b’lieve,” his lips grew very determined and 
he shook his head stoutly, “ that Mr. Dean is 
truly bad ! He jest couldn’t be, Anne, living 
there ! ” 

Anne smiled. 

“ One is one’s self wherever one is, Dick,” she 
said, but he did not lose the touch of wistfulness 
in her own voice, and it strengthened his belief 
in his new friend. “ We will go to. the side en- 
trance. That is the way I come when I bring 
work and it is easier, too.” 

But Dick murmured to himself with a boy’s 
persistence that they wouldn’t have let them go 
to any side door at Mr. Dean’s ! But he only 
whispered it to himself and Anne did not know. 

The girl who answered Anne’s ring knew her 


In the Fields. 


103 


well from her frequent calls to take and deliver 
work, and as she liked her she spoke pleasantly. 

“ Come in, Anne,” she said. “ You and your 
brother.” 

Anne shook her head. 

“We cannot,” she answered gently. “Dick 
and I only came to leave these flowers for Miss 
Millard. We are so sorry she is ill. We wished 
her to know that we are sorry and so we brought 
these.” 

“ Aren’t they beautiful ! ” said the girl, taking 
them and inhaling their fragrance. “ I didn’t 
know that you had such a garden, Anne ! ” 

“Those came from a friend,” explained Anne, 
smiling. “ We have no flowers, Amy. How is 
Miss Millard?” 

“ She is about the same,” answered Amy, a 
shadow upon her good-humored face. “ I wish 
you’d come in just for a minute — you and the 
boy — and I’ll get you a cup of tea to warm you. 
It’s cold to-day.” 

But Anne was resolute in refusing this friend- 
ly offer. It was late- and she must return before 
her father came home. 

She and Dick were turning away down the 
curved walk when a pleasant voice called her. 
Amy had come to the door breathlessly and 


1 04 Barclay s Daughter. 

was calling them back. Mr. Millard, from the 
library, had seen them come and go, and sum- 
moning Amy he learned that this was Barclay’s 
daughter and desired to speak with her. He 
knew enough of her father to feel that this 
might be a case where a friend’s helping hand 
might be needed. And if there were anything 
in his power to do to divert the punishment 
from his daughter 

So he smiled gravely but very kindly upon 
Anne and her little friend as they entered the 
room, motioning them to be seated. 

“You are Barclay’s daughter?” he asked of 
Anne as she lifted her sweet, shy eyes to his 
kind face. “ Be seated, child. Are you her 
brother, my lad ? ” 

“No, sir,” Dick said shyly. “Anne’s his 
daughter; Anne’s my friend too. I’m only 
Dick Chester, the cripple, you know.” 

Mr. Millard smiled. The boy interested him. 
Anne interested him too, but there was not such 
possibilities for his being of lasting benefit to 
her as to the small lad. 

“And your father, Miss Barclay. Would you 
like — do you think that he would like a— posi- 
tion of any sort ? ” He faltered uneasily before 
the girl’s calm face. He scarcely knew how to 


In the Fields. 105 

frame his speech not to wound her. “ I am 
quite sure that I could procure him a lucrative 
position at once if he desires.” 

There was no change in Anne’s face save a 
trifle more pallor. Her eyes met his quietly. 
She would not be seated, for she could not 
linger. 

“ I thank you, Mr. Millard,” she said sweetly. 
“ My father is not well or strong and has not 
been able to work for a long time, but I will 
speak to him about this, and let you know. If 
he were well and strong I should be glad — he 
would be glad ! But you will excuse me now, 
I am sure, when I tell you that I must go home 
or father will return and not know where I am.” 

The gravity deepened upon Mr. Millard’s 
face. She was surely not well or strong either, 
and yet did he not hear from his wife and 
daughter that she sewed for a living — hers and 
her father’s ? Could this be Barclay’s daughter, 
this sweet, calm woman who would not keep 
her father waiting ? 

“ I shall be glad to do anything that is in my 
power, Miss Barclay,” he said courteously. He 
could not have treated her with more respect 
had she been his equal socially. “ Kindly let 
me know if I may. And how is it with Dick ? 


106 Barclay s Daughter. 

Is there anything that I can do for you, my 
boy ? ” 

Dick was as proud as Anne with this man 
who ruined men’s souls unintentionally but just 
as surely ! He drew himself up with pathetic 
dignity, his great grave eyes meeting the grave 
eyes opposite. 

“ No, sir ; thank you, sir,” he said. “ I have 
work to do. Just a little, but it helps marm. 
Marm works too, you know, an’ when I get big 
I can take all the care of her. She sha’n’t work 
when I am a man — marm sha’n’t ! ” 

And Millard sighed, thinking — was the boy’s 
soul higher than his own with all his endeavor 
to be upright and clear of sin ? Had he mistak- 
en, after all, the true meaning of an upright, 
honorable life, and sown but bitterest seeds of 
wrong where he had argued a harvest of good ? 

For a few moments he looked at the boy in 
silence. His eyes were very grave and a touch of 
sadness was around his mouth. Were these the 
children of drunkards, this sweet-faced, slender 
girl, and the valiant little cripple, protesting his 
guardianship of his mother when he should grow 
to be a man? If so, then indeed the curse of 
drink was far heavier than he knew ; far more 
sinful and degrading! 


In the Fields. 


107 


He was aware that many drunkards sank low, 
that many lost all pride and manhood and self- 
respect ; but that the curse descended also to 
such children as Barclay’s daughter and this Dick 
Chester, proved that there was more than person- 
al shame or punishment to follow intemperance. 

Still, and the marvel of it never touched his 
consciousness, it did not once occur to him that 
he was in any sense responsible for this. 

The fact that Anne was still standing impressed 
itself upon him presently, and for the moment 
he set thought aside to dismiss them. 

“ I most sincerely regret that it is out of my 
power to assist you in any way,” he said gently. 
“ If at any time I can do so, you will come un- 
hesitatingly to me? You do not know what 
pleasure it is for me, I am sure, or you would 
not so positively refuse to-day. Remember that 
my daughter always fancied you, Miss Barela)'-, 
and that her father would do anything in his 
power to increase your happiness on that account 
if for no other ! And as for Dick,” he smiled 
at the boy, who was now standing rather proudly 
beside Anne, “ if there should come a time when 
he needs a friend in caring for his mother, come 
to me. I shall be glad to have you come. 

“And now,” he rose instinctively as they 


108 Barclay's Daughter. 

turned toward the door, “thanking you for your 
kind remembrance of my daughter, I will not 
longer detain you. Good-bye, Miss Barclay. 
Let me know your father’s decision. Good-bye, 
Dick, my lad. I am glad that you came ! ” 

As the door closed behind them he seated 
himself with a sigh and leaned back, thinking of 
them and of his own daughter and her life to 
come, comparing them with a restless half-con- 
sciousness that there was something wrong when 
such a girl-woman and such a brave boy were 
placed as they were, defenceless save for their 
own soul-honor and undaunted hearts ; half con- 
scious that this something wrong was connected 
with himself, and might peril his own daughter ; 
yet that he himself was blameless ! 

“ I regret that I called them back ! ” he said 
half audibly, turning impatiently in his chair and 
changing one leg over the other, a frown grow- 
ing between his brows. “ Could I have helped 
them in any way I should have had that con- 
sciousness to balance this uneasiness of mind. 
As it is, I wish that I had let them go. What 
is old Barclay to me more than any other man 
pretty well down in the social scale because of 
his own actions ? I offered assistance to his 
daughter and this boy, and if they refused, is it 


In the Fields . 


109 


my fault ? I have done all that I can. No one 
can do more. I shall not bother about them.” 

He resolutely pushed the thought aside, and 
settled himself to reading or sleeping, as the mood 
might come ; but Anne’s sweet, pale face and 
gentle pride, together with the boy’s quaint dig- 
nity, recurred again and again to him, blurring 
the page or marring sleep, and he felt that some 
sin of his were being punished through some 
one innocent of wrong ! 

Unpleasant thoughts ; but pleasant thought 
would not come, and he sat there helplessly 
until his wife entered the room to tell him what 
news there was of their daughter’s health. 

And as the days wore on good-cheer returned 
to the hearts of the watchers at the bedside of 
Millard’s daughter, for slowly but certainly im- 
provement came and the pretty eyes opened, 
recognizingly, upon those about her. Strength 
was longer in coming, but even that came after 
many days of watching and patient waiting. 

Young Cartwright regained his accustomed 
health and spirits much sooner than Minnie 
Millard. His injuries, as the physician stated, 
were severe but not serious, and his thoughtful 
attentions to his pretty finacee were beyond 
question. Flowers and fruit and every dainty 


I IO 


Barclay s Daughter. 


fancy that was likely to please her, his thought- 
fulness provided. Every day, sometimes twice 
a day, he called to inquire as to her condition ; 
and when she was able to receive and read his 
letters he sent her notes filled with pretty words 
of love, and anxiety for her swift recovery. 

“ He will make an irreproachable husband,” 
said Mrs. Millard to her husband, as they dis- 
cussed the matter one night in the safety of 
their own room. “ Minnie should be a very 
happy girl. The attentions that Mr. Cartwright 
showers upon her would spoil many girls. 
Minnie appreciates this too. If she did not 
she would be most ungrateful ! But I was cer- 
tain that she would accept him when he should 
ask her hand in marriage, for our Minnie is 
more common-sensed than most girls of her 
age.” 

“You could not ask for a more straightfor- 
ward fellow than Cartwright when he came to 
me about our daughter,” her husband added after 
a pause, his eyes upon the glowing grate. “ I 
have always liked him, but he pleased me more 
then than at any time. I am perfectly satisfied 
to have Minnie’s happiness rest in his hands.” 

And as for Minnie Millard, she felt that she 
should be accounted very happy, and as the 


In the Fields. 


1 1 1 


days crawled lazily and easily by, she congratu- 
lated herself that life was such a good thing 
after all, and health so desirable. 

“ I don’t see why people should wish them- 
selves dead — ever!” she soliloquized one day, 
lying idly among her cushions, her slim fingers 
toying with the blood-red petals of a rose she 
held. “ I am sure it is nice to live. I want to 
live. I never want to die !” 

Then she laughed softly, lifting the rose to 
her cheek, her gaze straying from the draperied 
window through the bare tree-boughs to the 
blue of the heavens, as she thought of her life 
and happiness. 

“ It was kind in Anne,” she said to herself 
as old memories returned, “ to bring me flowers 
when I was so ill ; but I wish that she had not 
done it ! I do not know why it is, I cannot ac- 
count for it myself, but it makes me unhappy 
to think of her in her poor little home with her 
cruel father! If my father were like hers how 
I should hate him, — how glad I should be when 
he were away, and how impossible it would be 
for me to be to him what Anne is to her father ! 
I wish that I needn’t think of her — now ! ” 

“You are to think of nothing,” said her 
mother with unusual tenderness, softly entering 


I 12 


Barclay s Daughter. 

the room and overhearing her, — “but pleasant 
things, Minnie. I have brought you a little 
wine. You are excited and it will quiet you 
and make you sleep your bright eyes back !” 
And recollection of Anne was gone ! 


CHAPTER VII. 


A PLEASANT VISITOR. 

" Kind hearts are more than coronets, 

And simple faith than Norman blood.” 

—Lady Clara V ere de V ere. 

There had been a scene between Anne and 
her father, for Anne kept her word to Mr. Mil- 
lard, and told her father what was offered him 
if he chose to accept. But John Barclay, never 
fond of work even in his best days, was still 
less so inclined as the years shortened for him, 
and he was intensely indignant that any one 
should suggest such a possibility to him when 
there was his daughter to support him and who 
should be made to do so. 

Anne knew that such a scene must come if 
she kept her promise to Mr. Millard ; but Anne 
never broke her promises. She had tact, how- 
ever, and did not speak until her father was 
sober. This was seldom, and she was forced to 
wait ; but finally the opportunity came and she 
spoke. 

A heavy frown gathered upon his forehead 
at her first word. He spread out his hands, 

(i 1 3) 


U4 


Barclay s Daughter. 


trembling from his reckless life, in a hopelessly 
pathetic fashion. 

“Yes!” he said angrily, with an oath. “It’s 
like the cheek of some folks ! Refusin’ a decent 
man a drink that he hasn’t no idea of not payin’ 
for, and yet sellin’ liquor, and sellin’ it as he 
chooses, as though he owned the world and the 
folks in it! Work for him ? Well! I think 
I ain’t agoing to work for him ! It’s enough to 
know that my girl works for his wife without 
my doing it ! You can tell him for me that 
John Barclay ain’t come to that yet. What he 
may do he don’t know, excepting that he’ll 
never come to that ! And how a girl of mine 
could for a minute believe such a thing is a 
marvel ! If you’d kept yourself to home where 
you should have been, there wouldn’t be need 
of my being insulted — partic’ly by that man ! 
But you always was a fool and always will be, 
I suppose ! ” 

“ Mr. Millard was very kind,” remonstrated 
Anne with quiet authority. “ He certainly 
meant no harm and no insult to you, father. 
Had he talked to you, you would have been 
assured of this too.” 

“ Had he talked to me ! ” reiterated her father 
still more wrathfully, his hands clenched as 


A Pleasant Visitor. 


1 15 

though indeed he would avenge this insult to 
his independence. “ He wouldn’t have talked 
much of this to me, let me tell you, Anne Bar- 
clay, ’thout my telling him plain and open what 
I thought of him for his impudence ! Talked 
to me indeed ! He’d never have dared talk to 
me about that more’n a word or two. But you 
never did have the pride of a fly ! You’d let 
any one insult you and your father ’thout open- 
ing your mouth to resent it. I never did see 
such a girl ! ” 

“ I am sorry,” said Anne with quiet gentle- 
ness, “if I did wrong, father. Miss Millard 
has been very kind to me, and Mr. Millard 
spoke kindly certainly. I wished him to know 
that we appreciated his desire to help us.” 

“ But we don’t need help from such as him !” 
protested her father, his bloodshot eyes touched 
with indignant fire. “ A proud, overbearing, 
stuck-up, make-believe pious man as would 
take a man’s last cent if ’twasn’t for what the 
world would say ! It would have served 
bim right if his daughter had a-been killed in 
the runaway, he’ s so set on her — thinks she’s 
the most wonderful creature there ever was and 
all that, when I guess I’ve got a daughter as 
well as him ! ” 


Barclay s Daughter. 


1 1 6 

He did not say this from pride or affection 
for his daughter, but in defence of his own 
pride against this other man. Anne knew this 
as well as he, but she had learned wisdom from 
her life. Many words seldom mend a hurt. 

“And I won’t have it!” added her father vio- 
lently after a moment, as he caught up his hat 
and prepared to go out. “ You’ve got to quit be- 
ing such friends with them Millards, Anne Bar- 
clay! There was that Jim Dean that you was 
friendly with till I told you I wouldn’t have it. 
He’s another of them makeshift fellers who put 
on a powerful sight of airs thinkin’ he’s better 
than most folks when he ain’t nothing but a bar- 
tender! I stopped that and I’ll stop this. There’ll 
he no fooling with me or mine, if I know it !” 

Anne made no reply. She would venture no 
word until she was certain that what she should 
say would be advisable. Argument with her 
father led always to worse. Anne Barclay was 
wise in her way. 

“ You can sew for them Millards when they’ve 
got it to do, but I’ll have no foolin’ nor famil- 
iarity or patronage from them,” he added, paus- 
ing in the doorway to make more emphatic his 
desire. “ I may as well put a stop to it now, 
and you may as well know it !” 


A Pleasant Visitor. 


117 


And closing the door heavily behind him he 
was gone, his footsteps shuffling upon the stairs 
until the sound died in the closing of the outer 
door, and Anne was alone. 

She seated herself at her sewing after clear- 
ing the room and tidying everything about it. 
There was a touch of sadness about her face 
that deepened its pallor, but the dark eyes were 
brave and steady. Miss Millard had been kind 
to her — thoughtful of her. She could not bear 
to give up her friendship. So far as she could 
see that it was right, she obeyed her father ; this 
did not seem right for her to do. If they gave 
her work and so assisted her to live, was she to 
return their kindness by unresponsive words and 
acts? She obeyed him regarding Mr. Dean, 
for Mr. Dean was merely one of those who ut- 
tered kindly words when there was need, and 
showed unobtrusive little attentions that his 
thoughtfulness prompted. 

She pondered upon this as she sewed until the 
quiet thought came to her to fret about nothing 
that she could not mend, and to wait with pa- 
tience until the moment called for decision before 
she decided; no one is certain of how changes 
come to set aside all one’s fine plans ; and 
presently she began to sing very low and softly 


1 1 8 Barclay s Daughter. 

a comforting verse or two, her fingers working 
busily and tirelessly at her sewing. 

As she sat so, there came a tap upon the door, 
and at her soft summons to “come in,” a small, 
slender, pleasant-faced girl opened the door hes- 
itatingly and entered. Anne laid aside her sew- 
ing and arose at once. A faint tinge of color 
crept to her cheeks and a new, shy dignity 
made her welcome irresistible. She extended 
her hand, smiling. 

“This is very kind, Miss Dean,” she said 
softly, her dark eyes shining. “ I thought per- 
haps you would forget to come, or that you 
might have so many friends ” 

Nellie Dean interrupted her and set aside any 
awkwardness that there might be upon their 
meeting. She too smiled as she said with de- 
lightful frankness : 

“ I could not forget you, Miss Barclay, once 
meeting you. Mamma wished me to come 
when I asked if I might, and tell you that we 
should be so glad if you will come to us next 
Sunday afternoon and drink tea in our old- 
fashioned parlor ! Mamma is fond of her par- 
lor — and tea — and you, Miss Barclay ! ” 

“ I scarcely know what to answer, Miss Dean,” 
Anne said softly. “ It is pleasant — perhaps you 


A Pleasant Visitor. 1 1 9 

do not know how pleasant — to be so remem- 
bered ; but I never go away for long, because 
father needs me at home when he comes. I do 
not like to disappoint father.” 

“ Why not bring your father too ? ” suggested 
Miss Dean hesitatingly. “ I am sure that my 
brother would be glad to have him come, and 
then there would be no reason for you to re- 
main at home, Miss Barclay.” 

A slow, strange, deep flush rose to Anne’s 
face. Miss Dean saw this and her own face 
deepened in color. 

“ Again I thank you,” said Anne gently. 
Her heart was deeply touched by this kindness 
and sympathy. “ But I fear that I shall still 
have to answer that it is impossible, Miss Dean. 
Please do not think,” she added hastily, lest she 
had wounded her new friend, “ that we do not 
appreciate your invitation ! It truly is not that. 
Father will be pleased as well as I when I tell 
him ; but father never goes out — that way — on 
Sundays. Your brother knows — I am sure that 
he knows — why ! ” 

Then, from the expression of Miss Dean’s 
face, remembering that this might seem disloyal 
toward her father, she checked herself with a 
deprecating gesture. 


120 


Barclay s Daughter. 


“ He has friends,” she explained swiftly, “ that 
of course he could not bring home. We have 
such a little home, you see, Miss Dean ! And 
then men are not like women in these 
things.” 

“ I know,” said Miss Dean sweetly and brightly 
as though there could be nothing but the most 
ordinary commonplace behind Anne’s explana- 
tion. “ I tell mamma that men are dreadful 
creatures sometimes, Miss Barclay. Of course 
mamma laughs at me and asks what do I know 
about them save that I have a kind brother — 
for I have the very nicest of brothers, Miss 
Barclay ! ” 

Miss Barclay smiled. Her thoughts returned 
to the day when she promised her father to have 
nothing to do with this bright girl’s brother ! 

“ And do you know, Miss Barclay,” the flush 
deepened in the smooth cheeks, a touch of dew 
in the dark eyes, “that my brother has such an 
excellent position in Hart & Hart’s ? That’s 
the big dry-goods house down-town. He left 
Mr. Millard’s some time ago, and a friend sent 
him to this house. Mamma and I are so glad 
because — because ” 

No need to tell the reason. Perhaps the 
heart of each girl had ached many times, and 


A Pleasant Visitor. 


12 i 


there could be no doubt that Barclay’s daughter 
understood perfectly the other’s meaning. 

“And I am glad for you, Miss Dean,” Anne 
said simply. “ Very glad.” 

“ But are you certain that you cannot come 
to us on Sunday — you and your father?” asked 
Miss Dean with a wistful light in her eyes and 
a pleading smile around the fresh young mouth. 
“ We should be so glad to have you come, Miss 
Barclay ! ” 

But Anne was positive in spite of the desire 
in her heart to go and be like other girls of her 
age and have pleasant friends ; and so after a 
few moments’ longer chat upon indifferent sub- 
jects, Miss Dean went away, carrying with her a 
memory of sweet patience and pleasure in well- 
doing that affected always her own after-life. 

“ And with such a father ! ” she murmured to 
herself, walking briskly through the crisp, cold 
air, waking roses to life in her cheeks and a 
dawning half smile on her lips. Her own life 
was happy ; almost without care save for this 
one bitter knowledge of her brother’s business 
that was now removed. Her father was a most 
kind, generous man both in his family and 
among his friends. From experience she could 
not know just how much Anne suffered or how 


122 


Barclay's Daughter. 


truly noble she was ; but her warm heart re- 
sponded to any suffering she saw, and she knew 
instinctively that Anne suffered intensely be- 
cause of her father’s life. For her brother had 
told them how Anne lived and worked for her 
father. 

“ Anne Barclay,” she added vehemently under 
her breath, gathering her furs closer about her 
as the cold wind swept the street, her bright 
face very attractive peeping above the long fur 
of her coat. “ Anne Barclay, what wouldn’t I 
give to be more like you in character ! Poor 
little insignificant me ! What am I beside you ? 
But even so, you shall have a friend in me if 
you will accept me ! ” 

But Anne went back to her sewing rather 
sadly, knowing nothing of this warm regard of 
Jim Dean’s sister. She had many friends, so far 
as they were her well-wishers and would do any- 
thing for her, but few came to her as Miss Dean 
came; and as Nellie Dean left her, she realized 
in a new and intense degree what it was to be 
closed in the home life, and away from others 
who would make life better and broader because 
of companionship and sympathy. 

She was very silent over her sewing for a long 
time, thinking, and her thoughts were growing 


A Pleasant Visitor. 


123 


selfish and hard, as did not often happen with 
Anne Barclay, when she caught the sound of 
Dick’s halting footstep on the stairs, and the 
color flushed her face when she comprehended 
what her thoughts had been and how disloyal 
she had been to her father. 

“ I shall tell Dick how bad I have been,” she 
said to herself as she waited his tap upon the door. 
“ He has too exalted an opinion of me and must 
know that I am not by any means so perfect as 
he thinks.” 

Then she called a bright “ come in ” and the 
door swung open to admit Dick’s bent little 
figure and pale face ; the large dark eyes turned 
immediately to her, certain of finding her at her 
accustomed seat with her sewing. But to-day 
the pale face did not brighten nor the dark eyes 
smile upon her as usually they did. Instead, 
there was a drawn look about both that startled 
Anne. She reached out her hand with a brave, 
bright smile. She knew from his face that he 
was suffering bodily or mentally. 

“ I was waiting for you, Dick lad,” she said. 
“ Here is your chair also waiting beside me.” 

He took little heed of her words. He did 
not offer to cross the floor to her, but stood just 
within the doorway, silent, unable to speak. 


124 


Barclay s Daughter. 


Then with a swift catching of his breath and a 
pathetic gesture of despair and entreaty, he said 
in his thin, high voice : 

“ Anne ! I have come for you. Marm is very 
sick. She says she’s only took cold, but she 
can’t more’n whisper, an’ I’m so ’fraid for her 
She looks jest dreadful, Anne ! White, an’ a 
pain in her side an’ breathin’ so hard ! I want 
to go for a doctor an’ she says no, that she’ll be 
all right presently. What’ll I do, Anne? You 
know. I came for you ! ” 

Anne laid aside her sewing. She had seen 
considerable of sickness and feared that she 
knew what was the cause of her friend’s illness. 
She rose and prepared to go with Dick, her 
hands trembling with haste. 

“ I will go with you at once, Dick dear,” she 
said gently. “If she needs a doctor we will 
send for one ourselves !” 


CHAPTER VIII. 


. NEIGHBORLY MINISTRATION. 

“ In man’s most dark extremity 
Oft succor dawns from Heaven." 

— The Lord of the Isle . 

Dick Chester and his mother lived two 
doors below on the same street with Anne Bar- 
clay. They rented only two small rooms facing 
the south, and these rooms, like Anne’s, were 
the perfection of neatness. Winter was setting 
in, and the sunlight streaming through the two 
small windows made the little home bright with 
warmth and light. 

Eleanor Chester and Anne Barclay were 
friends; the sort of friends that the struggle 
for life drifts the one into the other to flow rug- 
gedly on together. Days might pass between 
their meeting, but always each felt perfect re- 
liance upon the other’s friendship if sore need 
came. Both families had lived on that street, and 
in close proximity for several years — ever since 
Dick’s father died and left his widow with the 

(125) 


126 


Barclay s Daughter. 


baby lad to care for — and first Anne was at- 
tracted by the child’s grave face and large, pa- 
thetic eyes, and smiled up to him at the window 
as she passed. Then she met him with his pretty 
young mother upon the street, and the child 
held out his arms to her and smiled back into 
her gentle, sympathetic face. So the two strug- 
gling women met and spoke with the child as 
mediator, and by and by were friends. 

In consequence of this warm friendship Anne 
hastened to go with Dick when he announced 
his mother’s illness. She knew that Eleanor 
Chester, with her brave determination to care 
for her boy, would not yield to slight illness. 
If she had frightened Dick in this manner she 
must be very ill and haste was necessary. 

“ If it is just a severe cold,” she said to Dick 
as they hurried down the stairs and out into the 
windy street, “ I can probably make her com- 
fortable ; but if it is more than that, I shall send 
you for Dr. Benton at once. Your mother 
doesn’t care enough for herself, Dick dear ; she 
needs us to watch over her.” 

She smiled brightly as she said this, for the 
boy’s pale face was drawn with anxiety and 
Anne’s heart was always pitiful. 

But Dick was not to be comforted. 


Neighborly Ministration. 127 

11 Marm’s dre’dful sick, Anne ! ” was all he re- 
plied in a dead sort of certainty. “’Tain’tjest 
a cold. You can’t help her. You can do most 
things, but not that, Anne, ’cause I feel ’t you 
can’t!” 

And Anne found that this was true when she 
arrived in the sick-room and found her friend 
burning with fever and sitting up in bed half 
delirious from the pain in her side of which she 
complained, and because of which she was un- 
able to rest or lie down, as Anne tried to per- 
suade her to do. So Anne wrote a hasty note 
to the physician and sent Dick immediately to 
carry it ; for Dick had waited beside her help- 
lessly, yet with dumb fear, during the few words 
that passed between his mother and Anne ; and 
with trembling feet and close-shut lips the boy 
hurried away upon his errand as noiselessly as 
possible with his heavy shoes down the bare 
stairs. 

Dr. Benton was a young physician, but rapidly 
growing in practice and popularity, and Anne 
had heard of him through her neighbors as be- 
ing not only skillful but kind-hearted and con- 
scientious ; as attentive in a case where there 
was little or no payment as among the more 
wealthy. He lived on one of the broad streets 


128 


Barclay s Daughter. 


off from the side street where Anne lived, and 
his house was neat and prosperous in appear- 
ance, denoting a well-to-do man. 

Dick felt no hesitation as he climbed the steps 
and rang the bell. When he and Anne went 
to leave the flowers for Miss Millard he felt 
hushed and insignificant by the beauty about 
him ; here all was very nice but different. 

The physician came out immediately when 
the girl who answered his summons announced 
his errand. He was a genial-faced young man, 
and his kindly eyes smiled upon Dick as he saw 
him standing near the door in the hall, one hand 
grasping his hat as though that gave him 
strength, his pale face lifted with quaint dignity 
that won the man’s respect at once. 

“ So the mother is ill,” he said, and his voice 
was pleasant and interested ; “ I will go with 
you directly, my lad ; we’ll not bother about the 
carriage.” 

He had his case with him as though he were 
just about to leave the house, and taking up his 
hat as he spoke they went out together. Dick 
was anxious and only too glad to hurry beside 
him down the street ; the young doctor tall, 
broad-shouldered, prosperous-looking ; the lad 
so sadly deformed yet with the brave soul of a 


Neighborly Ministration. 129 

man within him that forbade his lowering one 
inch of his dignity even knowing so well as he 
did what a contrast they made. Then, too, 
there was his anxiety about his mother, and be- 
fore that what was his pride? 

Eleanor Chester was very ill. The physician’s 
face carried this news without words to the two 
anxious watchers as he turned aside to prepare 
the medicine after careful examination. Her 
temperature was fearfully high ; he would not 
tell these volunteer nurses how high this was ; 
and her pulse was like trip-hammers in the 
slim wrist. She was overworked and exhausted 
and had little to fall back upon in the way of 
strength to fight the fever and pain. Pneumo- 
nia was difficult in most cases ; in this it was 
almost hopeless from the first, but the physician 
remained beside her for a long time, doing all 
in his power to make her comfortable. 

“She needs constant care,” he said to Anne 
quietly, regarding her with some curiosity as 
she moved like a calm spirit about the room. 
“ Are you her sister ? ” 

“No,” Anne replied, a half smile touching 
her lips, her beautiful, calm eyes upon his. 
“ We are only neighbors, doctor.” 

“ A kind neighbor,” he said. Then, fearing 


130 


Barclay s Daughter. 


that he might have wounded her as speaking 
too personally, he added gently, — “ Is the boy 
all whom she has to care for her, Miss — I — beg 
your pardon.” 

“ I am Anne Barclay,” answered Anne with 
quiet, undisturbed dignity. “ All that a neigh- 
bor can do I shall be glad to do for Mrs. Ches- 
ter. I have only my father to care for at home. 
I can care for him and for her too, — Dick and I ! ” 

The boy was sitting motionless at the foot of 
the bed, save the busy fingers among the bright 
bits of paper, working noiselessly lest he dis- 
turb his mother, yet knowing that he must not 
be idle ; the great grave eyes lifted every mo- 
ment from his work to the flushed face on the 
piled-up pillows. He heard this conversation, 
but his mind was in a tumult of fear and anx- 
iety. When Anne uttered his name he nodded, 
with a firm compression of his lips, looking 
across at them, and resumed his work. 

The physician smiled back at the boy. A 
grave, kind smile, half as though he pitied him, 
Dick thought resentfully, in his sensitiveness re- 
garding this illness of his mother. His mother 
was not so sick as that he needed to be pitied 
by any one. She couldn’t be so sick as that — 
he couldn’t have it so ! And yet 


Neighborly Ministration. 1 3 1 

He lifted his grave, searching eyes to the 
flushed, thin face upon the pillows, the half- 
closed eyes vacant of recognition, and caught 
his breath fearing that he faced the truth ! And 
the truth might be more than even his brave 
heart could bear! He had always comforted 
himself when his mother worked especially hard, 
that some day he should care for her when he 
grew to be a man ; and now 

“ I think that Mrs. Chester is as comfortable 
as possible,” said Dr. Benton as he rose to go. 
“ I will come in again to-day. I leave her in 
good hands now, I know, Miss Barclay.” 

He knew that she would make an excellent 
nurse and the patient needed such. 

“ I shall do all that I can, doctor,” Anne said. 
She read in his face more than even she cared 
to hear from his lips. “ And Dick is a capital 
nurse, I assure you.” 

The doctor nodded, smiling, but his eyes wan- 
dered to the bed where the patient lay breath- 
ing shortly and with difficulty, but in a half 
consciousness that enforced silence upon her 
lips. Very thin and wan that flushed, uncon- 
scious face! No strength to fight for life; no 
consciousness of life ! 

“ Both reliable nurses ! ” he said, answering 


132 


Barclay s Daughter. 


Anne’s remark, as he paused in the doorway. 
“ I shall run in before night, Miss Barclay.” 

“And I hope,” said Anne softly, thinking of 
Dick, “ that you will find her better, doctor ! ” 

“Yes,” he said gently, with sudden pity for 
the girl too in her sad, narrow life. “ I hope so, 
Miss Barclay.” 

But Anne knew from his face that he had 
little belief in this hope ! 

When he was gone a terrible stillness seemed 
to take possession of the room ; the difficult 
breathing of the patient was the only audible 
sound that made itself heard by the watchers. 
The sounds in the streets someway died ere 
they reached the darkened windows. The outer 
room was sunny, but the light was shaded in the 
sick-room. 

At Anne’s request Dick went over for her 
sewing, and together they sat in the still room 
both busily working for the wherewithal to 
live, but both in the strange silence feeling that 
death might be in their presence. Speech was 
impossible. When the hours arrived for the 
administration of medicine, Anne laid her sew- 
ing softly by and with the tenderest care would 
lift the heavy head and press the medicine be- 
tween the lightly parted lips. Tears would rise 


Neighborly Ministration. 133 

to her eyes as she did so unaccountably, she told 
herself ; but her back was always toward Dick 
at such times and he could not know. For 
Anne, in spite of the vague fear in her heart, 
tried to be her usual self — calm, undisturbed — 
on Dick’s account. 

At noon she and Dick ate a frugal lunch of 
crackers and milk, and then, after she had noise- 
lessly washed the glasses and set them away, 
once more each took up the silent watch, yet 
worked busily. 

As the afternoon wore away and twilight ap- 
proached, Anne hurried to her rooms to prepare 
her father’s dinner and attend to his comfort. 
He came home late and ill-tempered because of 
the cold and only enough of drink to intensify 
every evil element in his nature. He scowled 
at the slim, womanly figure moving about the 
white spread table under the soft glow from the 
lamp ; and although she smiled and uttered 
some little commonplace speech — not wishing 
to tell him in his present state of their neigh- 
bor’s illness — going up to assist him with his 
overcoat and hat, he pushed her roughly away 
and muttered some malediction upon her stu- 
pidity. 

She did not resent his speech or action ; a 


134 


Barclay's Daughter . 


sadness and pallor crept upon her face and 
around her mouth ; that was all the visible 
change in her. And after a few minutes, still 
grumbling incoherently to himself, he threw him- 
self into a chair beside the table, and waited im- 
patiently for her to serve his dinner. 

When this was over, and he went mumbling 
and muttering to bed, Anne noiselessly donned 
her hat and shawl, after the dinner things were 
cleared away, and stole softly out to her new 
duty. The night would be long, she knew, 
with the silence and sadness of a sick-room, for 
she had cared for her mother during her illness, 
but she had often worked through the night 
when there was any necessary work to be fin- 
ished ; so she willingly took up this care of her 
friend, a prayer in her heart that good should 
come to the lad should his mother be called away. 

Nothing had occurred more than the usual 
routine of a sick-room when she reached her 
friend. Mrs. Chester’s breathing was a little 
more marked, but the fever was not so high and 
the eyes were well closed as though sleep were 
fighting with unconsciousness and had won so 
far. She smiled as she entered and noted this, 
for there sat Dick, with his grave, pale face and 
earnest eyes, watching patiently with his mother 


Neighborly Ministration. 135 

during these hours that might be — who could 
say ? — their last hours together upon earth. 

“Your mother is sleeping more quietly,” 
Anne said softly under her breath to Dick, as 
she set the room neatly for the night before re- 
suming her sewing by the shaded lamp. “ Did 
the doctor come, Dick dear?” 

Dick nodded several times, slowly. 

“ And he’s cornin’ in the morning, Anne. He 
said ’t he thought she’d sleep to-night. He 
seemed sorry ’t you couldn’t be here constant, 
but I telled him ’t I was here, an’ he said yes, 
o’ course, to be sure, an’ smiled. I like him, 
Anne ! ” 

Anne smiled now, nodding in turn. 

“ He is a good man, Dick. I feel certain 
that he is doing all that he can for your 
mother.” 

A pause, eloquent with much unsaid and in- 
finitely more unasked. Presently Dick asked, 
in an awed whisper, folding his hands among 
the paper work in his lap to keep fast hold of 
his bravery should Anne answer as he could not 
wish : 

“Anne!” 

“Yes, Dick dear.” 

“ Marm’s sick. Marm’s dre’dful sick. I seen 


1 36 Barclay s Daughter. 

it in his face when he come. I see it in yours, 
too. But — Anne!” 

“ Yes.” 

She was bending very low over her sewing 
that her face should be beyond his sight. Very 
pale it had grown, but with a sweetness upon it 
that sealed it with heaven’s own pity. 

Dick’s eyes grew still larger watching her. 

“Anne! Marm’s sick, as I said, but — she’ll 
get well, won’t she ? ” 

One instant’s pause, and then Anne looked 
up, the light in her face quickening his, as 
though heaven in its great mercy had touched 
them both with some marvelous light. 

“We are doing all that we can to get her 
well for you, laddie,” she said, softly, “ but if it 
is God’s will to take her home, where she need 
work no more, nor worry, nor suffer pain ” 

Silence. A broken pause of the girl’s voice 
offering the sympathy of heaven to a tired soul. 

“ But I was goin’ to work for her when I got 
growed, Anne ! She wouldn’t never get tired 
nor have to worry then ! I’ve al’ays planned it ! 
An’ now ” 

And now — over the quieting sleeper upon the 
pillows in the night watches settled the Great 
Silence whose future no man knows ! 


CHAPTER IX. 


SILENCE. 

“ Sleep the sleep that knows not breaking, 

Morn of toil, nor night of waking.” 

— , Scott . 

But dawn had deepened into day ere Anne 
Barclay knew of the Great Silence fallen upon 
her friend. Tirelessly she sat beside the tiny 
stand where the shaded lamp threw softened 
light, her fingers and thoughts intensely busy. 
Dick was faithful to his watch until the small 
hours of morning, when, utterly wearied out, he 
sunk to sleep, his hands among the bits of his 
work, his head fallen back against the tall chair- 
back, his thin, grave face wan under the lamp’s 
faint glimmer. 

Anne smiled when she glanced up and saw 
him. He could be of no real benefit in watch- 
ing, and he was faithful to his work. He needed 
sleep and rest. Why should she disturb him ? 
The patient seemed sleeping more quietly. Her 
breathing was less labored, until it softened and 
faded faintly off into the Silence that could not 
be broken. 


(137) 


138 Barclays Daughter. 

Anne did not notice this. She would not 
rouse her to administer medicine ; sleep was 
best ; so she only glanced occasionally across at 
the bed, and continued sewing, thinking over 
and over of the probable end to this illness and 
what would become of Dick. For Dick was 
uppermost in her thought. Mr. Millard’s prom- 
ise returned to her mind, but she knew that 
Dick would accept no favor at the hands of 
such a man. Were it not for her father, she 
would take the lad herself until he grew old 
enough to struggle alone ; as it was, she pon- 
dered over this possibility, revolving it in her 
mind, considering if she might not do it — a 
little thing indeed — for the gentle boy, her 
friend’s only son ! 

For Dick’s face was before her there, pallid 
and thin in the faint light ; and tears often 
blurred the stitches along the seams she sewed, 
looking at him. 

Then, as dawn crept up through the openings 
in the streets and flamed faintly above the 
housetops, driving back the night, Anne rose 
softly to open the window and let in the outer 
light, in order that she might save the burning 
of the lamp. She moved noiselessly, not to 
rouse the patient nor the little lad asleep in his 


Silence. 


139 


chair over his work ; and then, drawing in a 
deep breath of the crisp morning air to clear her 
lungs of all impurities, she closed the window, 
drawing aside the scant scrim curtains, and 
crossed the room to the bedside. 

“How quietly she sleeps!” she murmured, 
pausing and bending over the sleeper. “ I 
cannot hear a breath or movement !” 

Then suspicion of the truth flashed upon her. 
All color died from her face and lips ; her eyes 
widened and darkened. She laid one trembling 
hand lightly and tenderly upon the woman’s 
forehead, trying to command the tremor that 
took possession of her, alone, as she felt that she 
was, with the dead ! The brow she touched was 
cold ; the lips motionless ; the heart still. The 
Great Silence had come upon her so softly, so 
tenderly, like the infinite peace of heaven after 
pain, that there had been no struggle, no move- 
ment to betray what guest had come ! Sleep 
had been hushed in the Mighty Slumber that 
wakens never upon earth ! 

Anne was startled. She could not wish her 
friend back to endure earth’s bitter struggles, 
but she thought of the lonely lad asleep in the 
hard, high-backed chair, and a prayer trembled 
over her lips for him and his life to come — 


1 40 Barclay s Daughter. 

alone ! She scarcely knew what was required of 
her to do ; when her mother died, kind neigh- 
bors attended to all that should be done ; she 
felt that she must waken Dick to the sad reality 
of life, and let his sorrow soften before she sum- 
moned assistance. 

It was a trying thing to do. She was scarcely 
more than a child herself, and she knew just 
how bitter the truth must be to him. But, with 
a half audible prayer upon her lips, she brushed 
gently back the straying hair upon the white, 
cold brow before her, and moved the hands that 
only perfect peace should be betrayed ; then she 
softly crossed to Dick and knelt at his side, 
laying her arms tenderly about him. 

“ Dick, dear lad,” she said. 

Her voice was soft, but broken ; the tender- 
ness and pallor upon her face told more than 
words. 

Dick, opening his great, startled eyes upon 
her, read the truth at once. For a moment he 
did not move or speak; he sat within Anne’s 
encircling arms, his eyes upon hers. Then his 
gaze strayed to the bed, and putting her arms 
away from him he struggled down out of the 
chair, the bits of bright paper fluttering about 
his feet, and walking unsteadily to the bedside, 


Silence. 


141 

lifted himself on tiptoe, his hands clasped pas- 
sionately behind him, and peered up to the peace- 
ful, white face — once so ready to smile upon 
him — and held his breath to listen. 

“ Marm !” he said whisperingly, as though he 
scarcely dared address her, silent, lying unmoved 
before him. 

“ Marm ! ” he repeated in a lower key, as 
there came no response. “ Marm ! ” 

Still, silence ; still, the closed eyes and im- 
movable lips and quiet, cold face ! 

There was no doubt now of the truth. Never, 
never, never, so long as he should live, would 
this hushed form move or speak to him ; his 
mother was gone ; his mother was dead ; he was 
alone ! 

With a low moan that was more sad than any 
wild cry or sobbing, Dick sunk down upon his 
knees beside the bed, clutching the covering in 
his thin hands convulsively, and buried his face 
away from Anne’s sight. He did not sob or 
cry ; he knelt there as though he were touched 
by the same stillness that had taken his mother 
away, and Anne’s heart was filled with most in- 
finite pity and tenderness, watching him. 

Broad day had come upon them ; life was 
going on in its usual routine ; but these two did 


142 


Barclay s Daughter. 


not note the passing of time in their sorrow 
until steps upon the outer stairs, and a low tap 
upon the door, announced a visitor. Anne 
crossed to the door and opened it. The young 
physician entered with a low-spoken greeting. 

“ I have come early,” he said, apologetically, 
“ but I feared ” 

Anne’s swift gesture toward the bed silenced 
the words upon his lips. Instinctively he bowed 
his head. 

“ I knew that it must come,” he said gently, 
standing beside her for a moment, unwilling to 
disturb the one small mourner crouching down 
by the bed. “ I hoped it would not come so 
soon. Poor little lad ! ” 

The tears would rise to Anne’s eyes, try as she 
would to remain self-controlled. A slight quiver 
touched her lips. 

“ Yes, poor little Dick,” she said softly. “ I 
have thought more of him than of her, Dr. 
Benton ! She is at rest, but he — — ” 

“ He shall be cared for, too,” he said quietly. 
“ You need not fear for your little friend, Miss 
Barclay. The world is tender-hearted, after all, 
if one touches the right chord ! ” 

Then he crossed to the bed, and, stooping, 
laid one hand kindly upon Dick’s shoulder. 


Silence \ 


M3 


“ Come, lad ! Come, lad ! ” he said gently. 
“ The mother is past every ill ; she sleeps the 
sleep that follows a brave life. We, too, must 
be brave, and lift up our burdens and fight it 
out — you and I and all ! Isn’t that as the 
mother would wish, Dick ?” 

For an instant Dick clung desperately to the 
coverings, burying his face still deeper within 
them. Then he lifted his quivering face to the 
bending, kindly face above him, and threw out 
his hands despairingly. 

“ But I’d ’a’ took care o’ marm when I was 
growed, doctor ! I al’ays meant to ! She 
shouldn’t ’ve ever worked when I was old 
enough ! An’ now she’s dead an’ ’ll never know ! 
Marm ! Marm ! Why did you go — why did 
God take you before your Dick could show you 
what he could do an’ keep you from workin’ 
al’ays so hard ? Why did you go ? ” 

Dr. Benton shook his head with gentle pity 
for the lonely child, his hand still kindly resting 
upon the quivering shoulder. 

“ Poor lad ! Poor Dick !” he said. 

But after this wild cry of mourning Dick be- 
trayed by no word or sign what his mother’s 
death was to him. The neighbors were kind ; 
all things that were necessary were attended to ; 


144 


Barclay's Daughter. 


there were murmurs of regret for the young 
widow’s death and sympathy for the little lad 
left to struggle against so many odds — alone ! 
Such sympathy was shown after the first, how- 
ever, only in kind glances and gentle acts, for 
the boy seemed deaf and dumb and blind to all 
save Anne Barclay and young Dr. Benton. 
Little enough he said to them, and never a word 
of regret, but only to them would he soften so 
far. 

“ It ain’t natural,” one of the neighbor women 
said one day to her companion, “ for a child like 
him. Dick’s a queer chap, we all know, but 
’tain’t right to let him go on so still like. He’ll 
pine away an’ follow his mother before long if 
he does.” 

“ But there ain’t nothing to do,” protested 
another woman. “We’ve done all we can. 
We’ve showed him his pretty young ma a-lyin’ 
there in her coffin, with the doctor’s beautiful 
flowers around her, an’ he looks on as indiff’rent 
as though she was stick or stone or a piece o’ 
marble ! He never touches her, nor speaks to 
her, nor cries. An’ Anne’s told him, as the 
doctor said for her to, that he wasn’t to worry 
about a home, for he’d have one fast enough, 
an’ friends too ; an’ she might as well be talkin’ 


Silence. 


145 

to the dead woman in her coffin there for all 
answer he gave ! ” 

These whisperings were within Dick’s hearing, 
but he might in truth have been touched by the 
silence upon his mother for all sign he gave 
that he heard or comprehended. 

This lack of interest in life caused Anne some 
uneasiness also, although, perhaps, she of them 
all could best appreciate the stunned sensibilities 
that made even tears impossible and speech 
utterly beyond thought since the mother influ- 
ence was gone ! She was as tender with him as 
though he were her younger brother ; she was 
with him continually when she was not obliged 
to be with her father. Her father by this time 
had heard of Eleanor Chester’s death, and held 
firm belief that she gave more time to the house 
of mourning than was at all required of her, 
therefore neglecting him. But Anne went 
quietly on, keeping silence when so accused, her 
conscience clear of wrong. 

So the day of the funeral arrived, and Dick 
had taken his parting look at his mother and 
was waiting in the same unmoved silence beside 
Anne, his hand tightly held in hers, for the 
coffin to be removed ere they followed to the 
carriage. For Anne was going to the grave 


146 


Barclay s Daughter. 


with Dick. They were the only mourners. Dr. 
Benton had done everything in his power ; the 
expenses of the funeral and the mourning gar- 
ments came out of his own purse ; he sent 
flowers for the dead and comforts to the living ; 
but Dr. Benton’s time was not his own, and he 
could not follow to the grave this woman — a 
stranger to him — whose brave life and death 
appealed to his kind heart. 

He came in for a moment for a few last words 
of comfort and sympathy, and to see that all was 
well, as Anne and Dick stood waiting among a 
group of neighbors in the little back room. He 
was interested in Anne as well as in the lad. 
Her quiet manners and sweet thoughtfulness 
pleased and attracted him. He heard on every 
side of her unselfish life with her father. He 
had heard of old Barclay ; never anything to 
his good ; never before of his daughter. 

“ Keep up a good heart, lad ! ” he said, for 
one moment resting his hand lightly upon the 
boy’s shoulder, stooping beside him. “When 
you come back your friend will bring you to 
me. I shall be glad to have you, Dick ! We 
will be good friends, I am sure. Do not forget, 
Miss Barclay.” 

“It is not probable that we should forget 


Silence. 


H7 


your kindness, Dr. Benton,” Anne said softly, 
her shining eyes lifted to his, her sweet mouth 
trembling. “ Dick is my brother now, but I can 
do so little for him ! ” 

“ An’ is it nothing you have done for him an’ 
his mother, Anne ? ” interposed one of the 
neighbors with some indignation. “ If they’d 
been your very own kith an’ kin you couldn’t 
’a’ done more, settin’ up of nights an’ watchin’ 
an’ workin’ continual!” 

“ It is nothing,” said Anne, with quiet de- 
cision that silenced the other’s volubility. “We 
all have done what we could; who could do 
less at such a time, Mrs. Frey?” 

“ Plenty of folks as I knows of ! ” murmured 
Mrs. Frey under her breath, fearing to further 
displease the girl. 

But Dick, someway impressed by this argu- 
ment through all his apathy, lifted his face to 
the physician’s kind face bent down to him, his 
old quaint dignity heightened by sorrow. 

“ Everybody is very kind to me,” he said, in 
his thin, piping voice, his great grave eyes grown 
large with unshed tears ; “ an’ you specially, Dr, 
Benton — an’ Anne ! I’m glad Anne’ll let me 
be her brother. When I get growed I can care 
for her ’stead o’ marm. Marm’s cared for now.” 


148 


Barclay s Daiigkter . 


A slight choking of the boy-voice, the faintest 
perceptible pause, then he added steadily as the 
crooked shoulders squared with the manhood to 
come : 

“ But I couldn’t go to anybody an’ live on 
’em, you know, ’thout workin’. It’s only them 
as works that grow good men. Marm said so. 
She’d never let me live on nobody — marm 
wouldn’t. She wouldn’t do it herself. An’ so, 
though I’m much obliged to you, Dr. Benton, 
thinkin’ of me, T can jest stay on here near 
Anne an’ work at my paper wind-wheels an’ 
care for myself. Marm’d ’a’ done it, an’ I can !” 

The ineffable pride of dignity and manhood 
in his face and voice ! The squared shoulders 
and lifted head ! 

Dr. Benton’s eyes smiled, but his lips were 
only infinitely tender, his hand still lightly lying 
on the lifted shoulder, as the undertaker’s as- 
sistant beckoned them to go. 

“ Dick,” he said gravely, Anne’s eyes soft 
with tears at the gentleness of his voice, “ I 
liked you from the first, but I honor you now ! 
Yours is the winning spirit. We need not fear 
for him or his future, Miss Barclay, for it is in 
his soul. But if you will come to me, lad, you 
shall still make your wind-wheels and earn your 


Silence. 


149 

living so, until I have other work for you. Is 
it a bargain, Dick ?” 

But before Dick could answer, into the room 
very softly came Nellie Dean, her bright face 
tender with pity and showing her deep sym- 
pathy, her eloquent eyes uttering more than 
words. Her pretty red lips were quivering as 
she held out her hands to Dick under the young 
physician’s eyes, entirely regardless of the swift 
gleam of admiration upon his face, utterly care- 
less of any one but Dick in her intense sympathy. 
He was such a dear, brave, unselfish little fellow 
that he deserved every possible token of respect 
and pity. 

Anne’s pale face flushed with pleasure as she 
recognized the warm-hearted, impulsive girl. 
Dick would be glad to have her near him to 
comfort him, because she was Jim’s sister. 

“ Dick, oh, Dick ! I am so sorry, so sorry ! ” 
she said, her bright voice hushed by the pres- 
ence of death and mourning. “ Why didn’t you 
tell me, Miss Barclay? Why didn’t you send 
us word, so that I might have come and helped, 
if only a tiny bit? I’m not of much use in a 
sick-room, I know, but I could have come with 
fruit and flowers and such things, just to prove 
that I cared ! I’m sorry — so sorry !” 


Barclay s Daughter. 


150 


“ Pardon me,” said Dr. Benton, in his usual 
professional tone, suddenly becoming aware 
through his surprised admiration for this vision 
of bright young health, that the undertaker was 
growing impatient at the delay. “If you are a 
friend you will wish to go with them, madam. 
Or will you wait here ” 

“ I shall go with them,” answered Miss Dean 
quickly, lifting for an instant her frank, tearful 
eyes to the physician’s face, “ if they wish me to 
go. You, Miss Barclay, and Dick! It is all 
that I can do — now ! ” 

The sight of her seemed to bring back all of 
Dick’s sorrow and the woeful extent of his loss ; 
his lips quivered, and a flash of convulsive pain 
struck across his pallid face. Then, with power- 
ful self-command, remembering his pride and 
the coming years that should prove his strength 
of endurance, he conquered this betraying pain, 
and, still clinging to Anne with one slim hand, 
reached out the other to Miss Dean, his lips 
parting as though he would force even smiling 
as he looked back from the stairs to the physi- 
cian following them down. 

This lad was but one among many brave fel- 
lows whom the physician had seen, but bravery 
in any form is a man’s admiration. Dr. Benton 


Silence. 


151 

not only admired but thoroughly respected this 
slip of a deformed lad in his dignity as he passed 
painfully down the stairs between his two 
friends — following all that remained of his 
mother upon earth, uttering not one murmur 
against Heaven’s infinite justice, not one cry 
that God was cruel in so leaving him — alone ! 

“ God bless you, lad ! ” the physician mur- 
mured, “you and your good angels!” as he 
closed the carriage door upon them and turned 
to his own carriage waiting for him to carry him 
into the midst of other pain and sorrow — the 
world so full of both ! 

“ And yet there’s always sunshine waiting to 
light the darkness ! ” added the young physician 
musingly, as he drove away to other patients 
and other work, his hands always full. “ This 
boy Dick will make his life the broader and 
better and stronger because of this sorrow and 
loss ! His manhood will be softened and up- 
lifted by this boyhood’s grief. I know ! ” 

He knew indeed ! Dr. Benton was not one 
to talk of himself; one’s self was manifested in 
one’s actions, he said, arguing this point at the 
commencement of his professional career. Lis- 
tening to the sorrows of others, how one’s own 
dwindle down ! The sorrow of his own mother- 


15 2 Barclays Daughter. 

less life was great, but he never obtruded his 
pain upon others. He could bear it alone with 
God’s help. Any man could — or woman. 

So it was that Dick was close to his heart and 
strong in his thought that morning, driving away 
from this house of death to houses where death 
must come. 

“ God be with the lad ! ” he said, and the wish 
came from his heart. But he was not one whit 
less attentive or careful of his patients for all 
that, and no one guessed how the morning began 
with a boy’s farewell to his mother and the 
mother’s irresponsive lips sealed under the coffin 
lid! 

And as for Dick himself, he scarcely thought 
of the physician as he sat beside Anne in the 
coach, clinging to her hand with a strength of 
desperation that was painful to her. although she 
would not let him know, — with Nellie Dean’s 
bright face opposite, softened and saddened by 
this great sorrow come to her little friend almost 
without warning. 

“ Marm’s gone ! ” he kept repeating to himself 
over and over in a mechanical sort of fashion, as 
though he were a bit of machinery set to that 
refrain. “ Marm’s gone ! ” Yet no tears would 
rise in his eyes, no quiver touch the stern child 


Silence. 


i53 


lips, no break in the boy dignity and pride, — 
as though the power to feel had gone from him, 
leaving him but the semblance of a child. 

“ Marm’s gone ! She can’t never come back ; 
never speak nor smile nor move again ; never 
even look at me — at Dick — her boy again ! 
Yet I don’t seem to care, an’ I can’t help it ! I 
loved her, I know — I love her now — but I can’t 
show it ’ceptin’ by bein’ real quiet an’ brave as 
al’ays she wished. Marm ! Marm !” 

But outwardly very still and undisturbed by 
sorrow he sat with his friends, listening in the 
same mechanical manner to the rumble of the 
coach wheels over the hard roads and the occa- 
sional other sound of heavier wheels ahead that 
told him over and over the same story of sorrow 
and desolation and a mother gone away forever 
from earth, waiting for her boy in the land 
beyond the Mighty Silence that leaves so many 
hearts mourning and murmuring to know what 
lies unseen ! 


CHAPTER X. 


A NEW HOME. 

“ Be noble ! and the nobleness that lies 
In other men, sleeping, but never dead, 

Will rise in majesty to meet thine own.” 

— Lowell . 

The coach stopped at Barclay’s door, return- 
ing from the churchyard, where all that remained 
earthy of Eleanor Chester rested under a mound 
beneath a broad oak, where autumn’s golden 
sunlight sifted lavishly. 

Anne chose this spot. She drove out with 
Dr. Benton the previous day at his request, and 
they decided that the grave should be there 
where sunlight and shadow mingled. It was 
comforting to think that this busy life could be 
at rest in such a tender spot. For this was a 
country graveyard, riotous in summer with long 
grasses and wild flowers, with the shadow of the 
church steeple falling aslant the graves at its 
feet, and the voice of the choir on Sunday 
seemed to drift out and mingle with the voices 
(154) 


A Netv Home. 


155 

of the dead, gone beyond the church’s shadow, 
where the Lamb is the light ! 

Even Dick’s sorrowing heart was comforted, 
leaving the coffin there. 

“For marm’s in Heaven!” he said to his 
friends as they turned away, his wistful eyes 
searching their faces. “ ’Tain’t marm there !” 

And they reassured him with tearful eyes, 
perhaps, but with lips trembling into smiling, 
rolling away from the graveyard where the last 
low notes of the boy choir drifted and faded and 
died in the grand hymn to “ the Lamb of God 
that taketh away the sin of the world.” 

But as they drew up at Anne’s door, Miss 
Dean leaned over, laying one hand coaxingly 
upon Anne’s arm and one upon Dick’s shoulder, 
her bright eyes pleading with them as well as 
her voice. 

“ You know that you can go if you will, Miss 
Barclay ! Your father will not be at home until 
night, and we will see that you get home safely. 
You may carry your sewing, of course, if you 
really wish to. We shall be glad to have you 
even in that way, and I fear Dick will not go 
with me unless you go for this day at least. 
Please come, if you can ! ” 

“ I can go that way — yes,” said Anne thought- 


156 Barclays Daughter. 

fully, turning from the eager face before her to 
the pallid face at her side. “ But what about 
Dr. Benton, Miss Dean ? Dick was to go at 
once to him. He offered him a home, you re- 
member, first.” 

“ But he wouldn’t have offered it first if we 
had known sooner!” protested Miss Dean 
swiftly, the light hand upon Dick’s shoulder 
pressing down caressingly. “ Dick liked our 
home the day you stopped there, and we like 
Dick ; we will be very glad to have him with 
us. He can be as independent as he chooses ; 
every one must be independent to be truly 
happy, Jim says; so he need not hesitate for 
that.” 

“ But your mother,” suggested Anne gently, 
reading the girl’s impulsive heart, and, with 
more forethought than most girls possess, also 
remembering that there were others to consult 
before such a step could be decided. “And 
your brother, Miss Dean ?” 

“ You forget,” replied Miss Dean undaunted, 
“ that I told you we all like Dick, Miss Barclay. 
When I left home this morning upon hearing 
what had happened — we read the name in the 
paper, and Jim said it must be Dick’s mother, 
for it was where he lived — both mamma and Jim 


A New Home. 


*57 


made me promise to bring Dick back with me. 
We will do all that we can to make him happy, 
and after a while I believe that he will be, Miss 
Barclay.” 

“ I do not doubt that,” said Anne gently, re- 
membering Dick’s enthusiastic admiration for 
the pretty home among the vines and trees ; 
thinking also how strangely and often sadly 
one’s wishes are granted. “ I will go with you 
if you will wait for me to get my work, Miss 
Dean ; and then about Dr. Benton ? He should 
know how Dick’s prospects have changed.” 

Miss Dean nodded brightly, a flush gathering 
upon her cheeks at her success, as Anne stepped 
out. 

“ We will drive to the doctor’s,” she replied 
composedly, “ and I shall leave my card with a 
pencilled message upon it telling where Dick 
has gone ; then my brother can call upon him 
to-night and explain more fully. That is easy 
enough, Miss Barclay ; it is only you whom I 
find hard to win ! ” 

“ And it was only the other day,” said Anne, 
turning with her hand upon the gate latch, 
“that I refused to go to you, Miss Dean !” 

“ It is so strange how things come about ! ” 
said Miss Dean, more to herself than to Dick, 


158 Barclays Daughter. 

as she leaned back upon the cushion waiting for 
Anne. 

And Dick seemed to comprehend that he was 
not expected to reply, and sat very still in his 
corner of the carriage, his hands clasped, also 
waiting for Anne. 

“Jim can make it all right with this doctor, 
too, I know,” added little Miss Dean with 
charming positiveness, as she stared out of the 
carriage window upon the small white house 
where Anne lived, “for no one can resist Jim 
when he chooses to be nice. And he’ll be very 
nice to you,” continued this small tyrant, her 
bright eyes turning upon the crouching boy, 
“for he likes you, Dick, and you’ll like him !” 

And Dick, unable to utter his gratitude in 
words, lifted his grave, eloquent eyes to hers, 
the faintest tremor on his lips ; and she needed 
no words to read his heart’s deep thankfulness. 

And Jim went. He admired Anne for her 
brave struggle and noble life ; that was all. 

He was thinking of this as he walked along — 
he was a good walker and seldom rode — and 
approved of himself, believing that this was all. 

“It was just like her to take the boy’s sorrow 
to herself,” he said approvingly. “ I don’t be- 
lieve that she could help it. But I wish that 


A New Home. 


159 


more people had such a friend in the time of 
need as Anne Barclay ! She would have taken 
the boy, too, I suppose, and worked for him 
and cared for him as though he were in truth 
her own, if we hadn’t claimed him. I don’t be- 
lieve that she would have allowed him to go to 
this strange doctor. It is all very well for him 
to have been kind to them at such a time — he 
couldn’t have helped himself — but I don’t be- 
lieve that Anne Barclay would have ever let the 
little homesick lad go from her care to him.” 

He found, when at last he arrived at the phy- 
sician’s house, that Dr. Benton was a remark- 
ably cordial, pleasant man, very near his own 
age, not more than a couple of years older at 
the most. Office hours were over, and he was 
stealing a moment’s rest before starting upon his 
night calls, his feet thrust into slippers and 
cosily resting upon the fender before the grate, 
leaning back in his arm-chair, doing absolutely 
nothing for the moment, he explained, laughing, 
as he rose to meet his guest with outstretched 
hand of welcome. 

“I am glad that you have come, Mr. Dean,” 
he added genially, pulling a chair around for his 
guest and reseating himself. “ At first, I will 
acknowledge, I was considerably put out at the 


J 6o Barclays Daughter. 

summary manner in which your sister carried 
away my boy— for I have a fancy for the boy — 
but when I came to, consider the matter and 
think of his good as well as my own pleasure, 
I could not fail to see the advantage of his being 
in such a home as yours and among such influ- 
ences, than in a bachelor’s house like mine, 
where all care and attentions are paid for, so 
much for so long. Besides, the boy will feel 
differently with you ; he has known you longer ; 
I am almost a stranger to him.” 

“ But you have been a hundred times more 
kind to him than I, or my mother or sister, Dr. 
Benton,” said Jim Dean, with a pleasant laugh. 
He was irresistibly drawn toward this man in 
spite of his well-fixed determination before 
reaching there, of disliking him intensely. 
“ Kindness tells in the long run, doctor.” 

“And the short, too, eh? Well!” Dr. 
Benton frowned as though praise were distaste- 
ful to him. “ He has chosen the better home 
of the two, Mr. Dean. A woman’s influence 
is always more subtle and lasting than a 
man’s.” 

Doubtless he was thinking of Anne, young 
Dean told himself, watching him, and a frown 
darkened his own brows. No one could be 


A New Home. 161 

with Anne Barclay and not feel the influence of 
her pure, unselfish life. 

“ I’ll tell you frankly, Mr. Dean,” Dr. Benton 
continued, leaning across the arm of his chair 
the better to address confidentially the young 
man beside him, one-half of his fine face in 
shadow, that of his companion full in the light. 
“I like Dick Chester; I liked him from the 
first ; he has grit, and that’s what we need for 
successful lives. But my desire to have him 
with me didn’t altogether arise from that, but 
because I feel that, with careful treatment, good 
nursing, and good hearty food, that boy may — 
perhaps not be entirely cured — but helped to 
such an extent that life shall yet be a pleasure 
to him. 

“ I did not wish to tell him ; I do not wish 
him to know it now, for if it should end in 
failure — such cases are impossible to accurately 
diagnose without long acquaintance — such a 
disappointment would be deadly bitter to his 
ambitious spirit. I decided to take him into my 
home especially for this purpose. I knew from 
the first that his mother could not recover and 
that he had no one who could lay claim to him 
save kindly neighbors, who doubtless had more 
than enough of their own to care for ” 


162 


Barclay s Daughter. 


“ Anne Barclay again ! ” muttered Jim Dean 
to himself, though still giving the physician his 
apparently quiet attention. 

“ Part of my plan has failed at the start,” 
added Dr. Benton, smiling, “but I do not be- 
lieve that the rest will end so badly. Still, it is 
better for him to be with you among pleasant 
surroundings and with pleasant, lively people, 
than with me, where he would see and hear 
many things to sadden his already shadowed 
life. I consider myself his friend, and if you are 
willing I shall still carry out my intentions with 
regard to his case. As I say, it may end in 
failure, but I have strong hope because of his 
youth.” 

“Anything that you can do,” said Jim Dean, 
with his old, good-natured manner, ashamed of 
his dark thoughts before this man’s quiet strength 
of soul, “ I assure you, doctor, will be gratefully 
appreciated by his friends. Such a brave fellow 
deserves all the good that is possible. My home 
is open to you at any time. We shall be glad 
to welcome you as our friend, too.” 

“ I thank you,” said Dr. Benton simply, rising 
as his guest arose, and once more extending his 
hand in cordial friendship. “ My time is never 
my own, but as there is a patient in your house 


A New Home. 


163 

I shall feel that it is not altogether a selfish desire 
that shall call me there. I have also spoken to 
Miss Barclay relating to the boy, for she was 
his oldest friend, you remember, and she consid- 
ers our course a wise one.” 

“ You have seen Miss Barclay, then, Dr. 
Benton ? ” 

“ Yes,” not a ruffle in the quiet, genial voice, 
“ I saw her to-night before you came, Mr. Dean, 
because I wished to have her decision first ; that 
should outweigh ours, because of her undeviat- 
ing kindness to the little fellow.” 

“ Yes,” acquiesced young Dean, his hold upon 
the other’s outstretched hand somewhat relax- 
ing ; and he said it as though there were other 
and more harsh thoughts behind it. 


CHAPTER XI. 


AN ANNOUNCEMENT AND DENOUNCEMENT. 

The ring and the words of the book may make 
A glad heart joyous, a sad heart break. 

— Author . 

“ There is to be a wedding at St. James’ to- 
morrow,” said Nellie Dean, carefully balancing 
her spoon upon the frail edge of the Canton 
china cup before her, allowing her chocolate to 
cool. “ Of course everybody here knows whose 
wedding it is, and equally, of course, everybody 
here knows that Nellie Dean is going; that the 
carriage is to be here at two ; and that dear 
little Mamma Dean and Dick and Anne Barclay 
are going with me. I had to win Anne to this 
with actual tears and entreaties, but she has 
promised, and I’m not at all afraid of her break- 
ing a promise.” 

Her brother laughed. Her brother often 
laughed at Miss Dean’s positive assertions; but 
Miss Dean sometimes snubbed her brother’s 
laughter. 

“I trust that Miss Barclay has the same con- 
(164) 


An Announcement and Denouncement. 165 

fidence in Miss Dean,” he said, in amusement. 
“ Well ! As for the wedding, Miss Millard has 
chosen a fine young man, they say, her equal in 
every way. Their courtship began rather dis- 
astrously in a runaway, but that fact apparently 
does not daunt them in the least, and, no doubt, 
their marriage will end as happily as most 
others.” 

“ There’s a spice of cynicism in that tone,” 
said Miss Dean saucily, tipping her spoon as 
she turned her bright eyes upon her brother. 
“ What do you know of unhappy marriages, 
pray ? and if lovers were daunted by such trivial 
things as you suggest, why, poor lovers indeed 
they would be ! They should care the more for 
each other, Mr. Wiseman, because of their mu- 
tual danger. Isn’t that better, Dick?” 

Always including him in their conversation, 
their pleasures and happiness ! 

Dick smiled. With Nellie Dean’s bright eyes 
upon him and the dimples playing at hide-and- 
seek around her mouth, and her pretty head 
upon one side archly, Dick usually did smile 
upon her. She was next to Anne in his thought 
of women ; she could never take Anne’s place ; 
Anne was quite different ; but he liked Nellie 
Dean. 


Barclay s Daughter. 


1 66 

“There !” said Miss Dean with a triumphant 
nod of her bright head as this smile touched his 
face. “ And mamma agrees with me too, and 
you’re in the minority, Mr. Savage-words! 
Marriages are sometimes happy, and there is no 
reason why Miss Millard’s should not be classed 
among this number, and I hope it will be, for 
she’s as sweet and pretty and deserving as any 
bride in the world ! ” 

For a moment after this breezy self-defense 
Miss Dean was lost to argument as she sipped 
the chocolate from the dainty cup. Whereupon 
her brother accepted the opportunity to answer 
her. 

“ I may know from personal experience very 
little about marriages, happy or otherwise, 
Nell,” he said, and there was an undercurrent 
of gravity in his voice that silenced her light 
words. “ But I do happen to know something 
about young Cartwright that makes me — or 
would make me regret this particular marriage, 
did I not also know that his lady possesses the 
same fault. Perhaps it is a strange thing for a 
former bartender to say — I beg your pardon, 
mother, but I must refer to that this once — but 
when a young fellow prides himself upon a will 
strong enough to admit of his drinking just so 


An Announcement and Denouncement . 167 

much liquor and never one drop more, I think 
that the lady who marries him is in danger of 
an unhappy life. Few men can do this ; cer- 
tainly not a man who will brag of being able to 
do so ! That’s young Cartwright. 

“ I have known it all along, and, as I said, I 
should pity the lady — Miss Millard is a charm- 
ing woman — but I also know that it is her prac- 
tice to do the same. Doubtless she doesn’t brag 
of doing it ; probably she has never even argued 
it with herself ; but that she makes use of liquor 
upon all and every provocation I know posi- 
tively. 

“ Considering this, it seems to me that this is 
an even match. Each can cause the other in- 
describable humiliation and sorrow. They may 
never do it, but in my short life I have seen so 
much of liquor and its misuse — in Millard’s 
model saloon, too — that I believe one drop 
down my throat would choke me ! Since you 
two little women perusuaded me to give up even 
the selling of it, I see its sorrow clearer every 
day, and I shall always regret that my hand has 
helped, perhaps, many a man down ! For Mil- 
lard’s principle may be all very well, but it will 
never work until every saloon and every place 
that sells liquor adopts the same rule. What a 


1 68 Barclay s Daughter. 

man cannot get there, he will go for to the next 
saloon. 

“ If I knew that I had spoiled any man’s life, 
or darkened the life of any woman through 
handing a glass of liquor across that cursed bar, 
I believe it would haunt me forever !” 

He spoke so rapidly and with such unusual 
vehemence, one hand clenched upon the table, 
his cheeks flushed, his eyes blazing, that awed 
silence fell upon his companions. Even Miss 
Nellie forgot to toy with her spoon or co- 
quette with her pretty head. 

“I never thought of it in just that way be- 
fore,” ventured this young woman presently, 
her eyes lifted timidly to her brother’s excited 
face. There were times when Nellie Dean was 
afraid of her tall brother. “ I suppose almost 
always when a man becomes a drunkard, it 
spoils or saddens the life of his wife or family.” 

“ Always ! ” affirmed her brother with abrupt 
positiveness. “ Always, Nellie ! ” 

“ Like Anne,” said Dick in his thin, timid 
voice, half under his breath, his eyes lifted wist- 
fully to Jim Dean’s face. 

“Yes — like Anne!” reiterated Dean, the 
clenched hand upon the pretty Chinese table- 
cloth showing swelling veins and tense cords 


An Announcement and Denouncement. 169 

as though if he might he would by force change 
her life ! 

And for a moment no one spoke. Intense 
feeling was too plainly manifested by the young 
man to admit of argument. It was seldom that 
he betrayed to them the inner feelings and 
workings of his mind, and although he had 
given up his position under Millard, he laugh- 
ingly protested that it was solely because of the 
importunity of his mother and sister. 

But let what would be said on the matter by 
strangers or friends, Minnie Millard was the 
picture of happiness and loveliness on her wed- 
ding morning. 

The day was perfect ; not a cloud shadowed 
the exquisite blue heavens ; the sunlight was so 
clear, striking through the miles of ether upon 
the earth, that the earth caught a new glory as 
of heaven. A soft down of snow was laid like 
a spotless carpet of white over all. A bridal 
day of earth and heaven ; was it strange that a 
girl’s heart should throb with new life, remem- 
bering that it was her bridal day as well ? 

Minnie Millard, when wakened by her maid 
that morning, opened her blue eyes upon a per- 
fect world. Parting the lace drapery at the 
window she looked out with a face so charming 


1 70 Barclay's Daughter. 

in its inner sunshine of happiness that her lover 
might have loved her more had he known. 

“ What a wonderful day, Suzette ! ” she said, 
with the impulsiveness of a child, turning from 
the window, though still one white hand held 
back the drapery that the full, broad, golden 
light should flood the room. “It could not be 
more perfect if one experimented forever with 
ether and clouds and fire ! ” 

“ And it’s right it should be such a day,” 
affirmed Suzette, as much fluttered as her mis- 
tress, being young and pretty, “ for the old 
proverb must come true for you, Miss Minnie ! ” 

“ Happy the bride on whom the sun shines?” 
queried Minnie happily, smiling and blushing 
most bewilderingly. “ Thank you, Suzette. If 
you will tell mamma now that I am awake, I 
think that she will wish to come in at once. 
There is so much to be done.” 

So much to be done indeed, with the bride 
and bridesmaids to look after ; to see that the 
gowns were correctly draped, and the wines set 
in the dining-room to flow for healths to the 
bride ; the presents to be unpacked and ar- 
ranged, and the all-comprehensive thought up- 
permost in the mother’s mind that the only 
daughter, the home’s sunshine, her baby, grown, 


An Announcement and Denouncement. 171 

was to leave the old home that day to never 
return the same ! 

She would be near them ; she was not to 
leave them utterly ; she could come and go 
among the old rooms and smile upon them and 
give them love words and be warm in their 
hearts ; but never the child needing, craving a 
mother’s care, but a woman reigning in a home 
of her own apart from them with her husband’s 
interests first in her heart and the old home a 
sweet, bygone memory. 

Her wedding day ! 

It was to be a late, church wedding ; dinner 
afterward, and then the bridal couple would start 
upon a trip South and so on to the West and 
around home in the spring by way of the 
Northern Pacific route. To Minnie the thought 
was delightful, for she was especially fond of 
travelling and sight-seeing ; to her parents it 
meant long separation ; but they acknowledged 
even so that they knew when they gave up their 
daughter she could never again be their own. 

“ It won’t seem long at all ! ” said Minnie, as 
they talked of the trip that day by snatches, 
with the bridesmaids hovering about her. “ I 
shall write you all about the places we see and 
the comical things that happen — you remember 


172 


Barclay s Daughter. 


that something comical always does happen 
wherever I go, girls! — and when we return 
home how much I shall have to tell you !” 

“ Which will be delightful, of course,” said 
Maud Carew dubiously ; she was one of the 
bridesmaids, and the day was not far off when 
she too would don the white bride-satin ; “ but 
not nearly so nice as going one’s self, Minnie !” 

“ And seeing with one’s eyes the beautiful 
places,” added Sade Anderson regretfully. 

“And not having to wait for letters which 
never do come when one wishes them to !” sup- 
plemented Belle Hyatt with a pretty little 
grimace. 

“ N-no,” said Minnie reflectively as she touched 
caressingly the bouquet of white roses sent her 
by her lover ; “ but then you ought to be glad 
of even that, girls ! ” 

“ And you are not so strong yet as to be able 
to endure much fatigue ; you must be careful 
for some time, Minnie, as Dr. Farjeon said,” 
Mrs. Millard told her later with tender solici- 
tude, snatching a moment’s quiet with her 
daughter. “ Such severe injuries as you received 
in that accident take months to thoroughly re- 
pair.” 

“ I am sure that Tom will take very good care 


An Announcement and Denouncement. 173 

of me ; you need not worry, foolish mamma,” 
said Minnie fondly, her face lovely in its flushing 
and paling. 

“ We could wish you no better husband than 
the one whom you have chosen, Minnie,” added 
Mrs. Millard after a short pause. “ He is every- 
thing that could be desired, my dear ; we made 
certain of that before trusting your happiness to 
him.” 

“ Every one has been good to me all my life,” 
said Minnie sweetly; “is it probable, mamma, 
that just because 1 am going to be married all 
things will change ? I know that I shall be 
happy. Why should I not?” 

Mrs. Millard smiled, and was silent ; she 
could not darken the girl’s bright hopes with 
thoughts of sorrow and unhappiness, such as 
strangely crowded upon her thoughts that day. 

And so, as the sun slanted slowly from the west 
through the high, stained windows of the church, 
and twilight was fast approaching, the bells 
chimed merrily a weddingpeal for Minnie Millard 
and Tom Cartwright ; and the guests assembled 
in the old church pews, filling the place with per- 
fumes and flower scents, and glimmer of silks 
and laces and beautiful faces and bright eyes ; 
and those unbidden who entered from curiosity, 


174 


Barclay s Daughter. 


all murmured their admiration and approval as 
the pretty bride passed up to the chancel in her 
trailing satin, the soft veil touching her face 
with almost indefinable, delicate shadow, her 
hands trembling a little, one holding her flow- 
ers, the other lightly lying upon her father’s 
arm. 

And a charming group it was, the bride and 
groom, well mated, every one said, and the 
charming bridesmaids and handsome grooms- 
men, and the parents standing a little aside, 
putting away their coming loneliness to wish 
their daughter only the happiness due her youth 
and beauty and innocence. 

And the pretty bride’s voice was sweet and 
low, murmuring the responses, while that of the 
bridegroom was steady and unmoved as he 
uttered the words that bound himself to love 
and protect, “ until death should them part,” 
the small, trusting woman at his side. And 
who among those assembled there dared breathe 
other than belief in the happiness of the two at 
the altar ? 

“ It must be pleasant,” said Anne very softly, 
“to have so many friends and know that they 
all desire one’s happiness.” 

“ An’ when you get married, Anne, you shall 


An Announcement and Denouncement, j 75 

have everything like this,” said Dick whisper- 
ingly, but with quiet conviction. “ Some day 
I’m goin’ to ask Mr. Dean — I’d forgot ’bout 
it till now — more of what Miss Millard said 
that day that flowers meant lovin’. He’ll tell 
me if I ask him, Anne. He’s wonderful good 
to me.” 

“ But you must never ask him, Dick,” said 
Anne sternly, frightening him by the new tone 
of her voice, though she spoke but in a whisper. 
“ What would he say ! what would he think ” 

“ I’m dreadfully sorry that I came,” murmured 
Nellie Dean, leaning between them to utter her 
thought, not knowing of their hurried words, 
her bright face clouded, her eyes grown wistful, 
all her archness gone for the moment ; “ be- 
cause, do you know, Anne Barclay, I can think 
of nothing, hear nothing, see nothing but the 
possible fulfillment of Jim’s words concerning 
them. Even the sunlight striking through that 
red pane over there rests upon her head like 
wine lightly thrown and straying down — do you 
see it, Anne? — upon the lovely lace veil ! If it 
should be that either or both ” 

“ You must keep silence upon such things at 
a wedding, dear,” said Mrs. Dean smiling, laying 
one hand softly upon her daughter’s arm. “You 


1 76 


Barclay s Daughter. 


must wish a bride happiness, Nellie; what will 
come afterward only the future will prove.” 

“But suppose it proves evil?” murmured 
Nellie under her breath, her eyes following, as 
though fascinated, every movement of the 
bright, veiled head with the sunlight stained 
blood red upon it before the altar rail. 


CHAPTER XII. 


A NEW DEFENDER. 

No min with manhood in his veins could stand 
And see a woman suffer, or a child. 

— Author . 

“ It’s a powerful good thing that Millard’s 
daughter’s married off at last,” growled John 
Barclay, with a lowering, side-long look at Anne 
as he entered the room with his usual shambling 
gait, emphatically slamming the door behind 
him. “They’ve been a-settin’ their traps long 
enough tryin’ to get her settled, an’ now they’ve 
done it. A fine, stuck-up fellow she’s married, 
true enough — after Millard’s own heart with his 
hypocrisy and pride — an’ I hope now he’ll learn 
that his daughter ain’t no more likely to go 
a-sailin’ into heaven than any other man’s 
daughter.” 

As he spoke he flung his hat into a chair as 
though he were venting his spite upon Millard 
himself, and sunk down upon the same chair. 

Anne made no reply. She had laid aside her 
sewing as soon as she heard her father’s step on 

(177) 


Barclay s Daughter. 


178 

the stairs, and rose to prepare their simple din- 
ner. Dick was watching her, too, for Dick had 
come to spend the afternoon with Anne, and 
Mr. Dean was to stop for him on his way home. 
So far Mr. Dean had not come, and it was 
quite dark in the streets save where the lamps 
flickered and flared in the windy gusts that 
swept around corners and up and down the 
streets as though to purify them. 

“He has forgotten to come, Dick,” said 
Anne, as they watched among the hurrying 
passers-by for the one tall figure. “ He will 
come for you after dinner, for Miss Dean will not 
allow you to return alone, and we can have a 
cosy dinner here.” 

In her heart she was not so positive that the 
dinner would be cosy, well aware of her father’s 
dislike of company ; but she was as bright and 
assured in manner as though her father were the 
most cordial, most affectionate among men. 

But Dick shook his head positively. 

“ Mr. Jim never forgets,” he said. “ He’ll 
come, Anne, presently.” 

Still, he had not come, and now Barclay was 
at home ; and Barclay hated Mr. Dean ; and 
although Anne would not mar one moment of 
the boy’s stay, yet in her own heart she was 


A New Defender. 


179 


fearful of what might come should her father 
and young Dean meet in her father’s present 
state. For Barclay was more than usually in 
liquor that night. 

Nevertheless, she went quietly about the room 
preparing the dinner, her father watching her 
from under his heavy, frowning brow, as though 
there were more that he wished to say and was 
yet half fearful to utter with that calm face 
before him. And Dick watched them both in 
a trembling sort of way ; for Dick was in deadly 
fear of Barclay, and sat very still in his chair, if 
by any possibility he might remain unnoticed, 
fearing, too, that his presence might call down 
some harshness upon Anne. 

“Come,” said Anne presently, and as cheer- 
fully as she could, “ dinner is ready, father. It 
has been such a cold day that you must be hun- 
gry. Come, Dick dear, I have given you a 
place between father and me.” 

Barclay turned sharply upon him as Anne ad- 
dressed him, and the boy shrank back in his 
chair, not knowing what was best to do. 

“ I ain’t hungry, Anne,” he faltered very low. 
“ Besides, Mr. Jim will be along in a minute, 
an’ ’twouldn’t be worth while to set down an’ 
only have to get right up an’ go away.” 


i8o Barclays Daughter. 

Barclay turned upon him fiercely. He had 
risen to go to the table, and now held to the 
back of a chair to steady himself as he faced 
the boy. His eyes were bloodshot, his face 
flushed with liquor, his heavy, lowering brows 
making his face repulsively cruel. 

Dick knew when too late that he had made a 
mistake in speaking of Jim Dean. Anne’s 
wistful eyes entreated him to silence. But the 
harm, if harm there was, had been already done. 

“ Oh ! ” said old Barclay with a drunken ges- 
ture of scorn. “You choose fine friends for 
yourself — you, boy ! I’ve give my daughter 
orders, an’ ’twouldn’t be a bad idea for you to 
follow ’em, that she’s to have no more to do 
with such mighty self-important folks as them 
Deans an’ Millards. There’s other girls spoiled 
enough ; my girl sha’n’t be spoiled if old Bar- 
clay’s got anythin’ to say about it, an’ I rather 
think he has. Young folks ought to take care 
of the old ones ; they had to when I was a boy ; 
but nowadays things is diff’rent. It’s every- 
body for himself now. They’d spoil my girl too 
that way — make her selfish an’ forgetful of her 
father — if I didn’t keep her down an’ out of the 
way of such meddlin’ folks. That Jim Dean’s one 
of the young sprigs, too. Thought he could say 


A New Defender. 1 8 1 

what he liked behind Millard’s bar, did he ? 
Talked mighty pert to an old man like me — 
old enough to be his father. But I stopped 
Anne’s speakin’ or noticin’ him, an’ she sha’n’t 
do it if he dares to come here to-night ! I’m 
here now ! It’s my house, he’ll please remem- 
ber, an’ them as I don’t want here ain’t to come. 
It’d be best for you if some one stopped you 
too, Dick Chester. What’d your marm say if 
she were alive an’ knew who you’ve took up 
with, I’d like to know ?” 

Dick’s face quivered an instant at this coarse 
mention of his mother, one hand involuntarily 
grasping the back of his chair, his grave eyes 
with a new fire in them steadily meeting those 
other bloodshot eyes. 

But Anne, fearing a scene, knowing far better 
than the boy what was her father’s humor when 
in his present state of intoxication ; knowing 
also that, small and deformed though he was, 
Dick Chester would hear none but respectful 
words of his mother, turned to Dick with a smile 
that entreated him to say nothing, and laid her 
hand persuasively upon her father’s shoulder. 

“Come,” she said gently, drawing his eyes to 
her and away from the boy. “ Dinner will be 
cold, father. I made a little oyster stew for 


182 


Barclay s Daughter . 


you — you are so fond of oysters — and I’m sure 
they’re seasoned nicely ; come eat them while 
they’re hot.” 

She said no more about Dick’s joining them ; 
she knew that it was better not. 

For a moment her father glared down into 
her eyes in a sort of fascination, as though 
silenced by the sweetness and purity of her face. 
Then he threw off her hand with a muttered 
imprecation, falling back a step or two in his 
unsteady effort to stand erect. His eyes, shot 
with the fire of liquor, were cruel now. He 
caught at the chair again to steady himself, and 
lifted one hand, clenched, threateningly toward 
her. 

She did not shrink, but met his gaze calmly, 
as though she would quiet the storm she knew 
instinctively was rising. 

“ Maybe you thought,” he said fiercely, stand- 
ing, roughly threatening, before her, “ that I 
didn’t know how you’d gone against my wishes, 
or maybe you thought that I wouldn’t speak if 
I did. But I know — I heard. I ain’t so blind 
nor yet so forgivin’ as to make out I’m a fool 
an’ afraid to say what I’ve got to say to my own 
daughter ! I didn’t go to the weddin’ yesterday 
— I wouldn’t ’a’ been seen goin’ there, I’ve got 


A New Defender. 183 

too much self-respect for that — but I heard an’ 
might have known ’twould be so with my 
daughter, a-breakin’ her promise to me constant 
an’ goin’ an’ doin’ for them as I’ve forbid her 
doin’ for — that you was there, Anne Barclay, 
bold an’ brazen as all the rest along of Jim 
Dean’s folks that I’ve told you over an’ over I 
won’t have you goin’ with ! ” 

He brought his hand down heavily upon the 
back of the chair, and then lifted it again men- 
acingly, taking a step toward her, added wrath 
in his eyes. 

“ I suppose the next I know — for when 
once a woman begins to deceive there ain’t no 
tellin’ where she’ll stop — that you’ll be a-gettin’ 
married, Anne Barclay, an’ leavin’ your father 
to go to the dogs, or starve, or die in the streets ! 
You ain’t got no more gratitude than the rest, 
an’ ain’t no better. But mark my words,” — he 
came so very close to Anne now with that lifted 
arm and threatening face that Dick slipped 
swiftly from his chair and stood beside it, one 
hand clenched upon it, one reached out as though 
he would stop some cruel deed, his whole sensi- 
tive face alive with fear and determination. 

“ Mark my words, Anne Barclay, if ever you 
should forget my self-respect and pride, as well 


i S4 Barclay s Daughter. 

as your own, enough to do it, an’ should take 
up with that Jim Dean — such things have hap- 
pened before now — I’d strike you down at the 
altar itself, as I do now !” 

He brought that cruel, lifted arm down with 
drunken fury to strike the girl, but Dick was 
more swift than he. With a cry to Anne he ran 
forward and caught at her hands and dress and 
dragged her aside with a strength born of love 
and excitement. But the man, not to be 
thwarted, staggered forward, and the blow in- 
tended for his daughter fell instead upon the 
boy’s shoulder. 

He uttered no cry ; his pride and thought for 
Anne would not admit that when he saw her 
white, terrified face bending above him ; but he 
shut his teeth down over his suffering, falling 
back against her from the force of the blow, 
still pushing her aside. 

She attempted to shield him with her arms, 
her face white like death in her fear for him, 
but he held her hands and pushed her away be- 
yond the man’s reach with a strength marvelous 
in his weak little frame. 

And then the hall door opened and Jim Dean 
paused only an instant on the threshold. 

“ I knocked,” he said, at first not knowing of 


A New Defender. 185 

the scene enacted there, “ but you did not hear me. 
I have come for Dick. Pardon me, Miss Barclay.” 

Then the truth flashed upon him, seeing the 
pallid faces before him and the attitude of the 
man shrinking back, now that a defender had 
come for the girl and the little lad, and crossing 
the room, tall, calm, powerful in his youth and 
chivalrous spirit, he paused between Barclay 
and his daughter and Dick, his hands clenched 
at his side. 

Anne had been pale before; now the crim- 
son blood of shame and pride and pity for the 
lowered manhood of her father rushed in a tide 
to her face ; but Dean’s face was set white and 
stern as he looked upon her, ere turning to the 
drunken man facing them. 

“ So ! Is this the way you treat your daugh- 
ter, Barclay?” he said coldly, his eyes fixed 
sternly upon the bloodshot eyes that now began 
to waver and fall, for Barclay was a coward 
with men. “You forget yourself! You forget 
your manhood and the consequences that will 
follow from the law upon such acts of violence ! 
If I hear of this again — only once again, remem- 
ber — I shall put you beyond the power of doing 
harm to any one. Coward ! To strike a wom- 
an — and such a woman ! ” 


1 86 Barclay s Daughter. 

And as they passed out upon the stairs a mo- 
ment later to relieve Anne of the embarrass- 
ment of their presence, Dick clung to his friend, 
wild with fear. 

“ I can’t leave Anne ! ” he whispered eagerly. 
“ I wouldn’t dare leave Anne alone with him, 
Mr. Dean ! You don’t know what he is.” 

“ Yes, I think that I know pretty thoroughly,” 
answered Jim, still speaking sternly, but with a 
gentle pressure of the hand Dick held so closely. 
“ Pretty thoroughly, Dick ! ” 

Dick faltered a moment, fearful for Anne, his 
voice sinking with dread as he said hesitatingly : 

“ How do you know ’bout it, Mr. Dean ? 
Your father didn’t — didn’t — drink, did he? I 
thought you all loved him so much, an’ I 
couldn’t ’a’ loved him nor anybody if he drank 
an’ acted like — Anne’s father ! ” 

A shade of pain and pity crossed the fine 
young face bent above the child’s wistful, lifted 
eyes. 

“No,” he answered very gently, softening 
the harshness of his voice before this strange 
little lad. “ My father was an honorable man, 
Dick — kind and good and true. He would have 
died to save a woman ; he would have never 
touched her to her ‘harm ! But my life outside 


A New Defender. 


187 


of my home has taught me many sad things, 
my boy, and perhaps helped me to comprehend 
the sufferings of others. Still, dear lad, you 
need not fear to leave your friend to-night. 
She is as safe from molestation as though vve 
stayed here, you and I, to watch. I know the 
man I was dealing with. Only cowards will 
harm a woman, and cowards are fearful of strong 
words from a man. Come, Dick.’’ 

Reluctantly, only half convinced, yet not 
wishing to show that he doubted him, Dick 
turned away his face from the partly open door 
through which a soft line of light made deep 
shadows beyond, and with difficulty descended 
the stairs with his protector. 

Jim Dean did not know that Barclay struck 
the boy, and Dick would not betray it on Anne’s 
account had the pain been ten times as severe 
as it was ; and it was very severe ; and Anne 
was too stunned by fear and humiliation to ut- 
ter so much as one word of reproach or thanks. 

The blow was heavier than even Dick knew 
at first ; the excitement, the fear for Anne, then 
alarm for his brave friend come to their rescue 
dulled the pain ; now, however, as he painfully 
and slowly descended the stairs, the sharp ar- 
rows of pain shooting through his shoulder re- 


1 88 Barclay s Daughter. 

minded him that the mark of Barclay’s drunken 
wrath was upon him. 

“ But I’m glad it wasn’t Anne,” he comforted 
himself by repeating under his breath many 
times. “ I’m glad it wasn’t Anne !” 

They reached the lower landing and Jim was 
stooping to turn the key and open the door, 
when the soft, thin line of light above widened 
and brightened, and on the stairway, coming 
down to them, was Anne, pale and wistful- 
eyed, but quite calm. 

A smile lighted Jim Dean’s face as he looked 
up and saw her ; a smile that was more than 
kind, or sorrowful, or pleased ; a smile so elo- 
quent of the heart behind it that the lighted 
face must have betrayed his tender thought of 
her ! But Anne, — half proud, trying to shield 
her father from blame ; half shy, remembering 
this young man’s many kindly acts ; half fear- 
ful, thinking also and most of the boy’s possi- 
ble suffering from her father’s brutality, — did 
not wait to fathom the meaning of that won- 
derful smile upon Dean’s face, but hastened almost 
noiselessly with her light feet down the stairs. 

She paused on the lower stair ; she flushed 
and paled with shame, now that she must speak 
of her father’s action. She reached out her 


A New Defender. 


189 


hand to Dick as though to entreat his pardon 
for her father’s cruelty, clinging with the other 
to the narrow rail to prevent her falling beneath 
her disgrace. 

“ Dick,” she said very sweetly, very low, her 
shining eyes now searching his face, now raised 
to the kind, fine, manly face of his companion. 
“ Dick, dear, I am so very, very sorry ! He 
wouldn’t have done it, Dick, he couldn’t have 
done it, had he been himself ; but the men he 
sees, they lure him on and coax and flatter him, 
knowing his little weaknesses, and he forgets 
that he should not listen ; and when he — for- 
gets — so — Dick, he doesn’t know what he does ! 
He wouldn’t have done it otherwise ! ” 

Dick’s face, also, from being pallid flushed 
crimson now, and with a finger on his lips and 
his large eyes entreating her to speak no further, 
tried to drag his companion away ere she should 
say more. 

Anne understood. She honored him for his 
brave unselfishness, too, but she knew that she 
was right and would not be silenced. She de- 
scended the last step and laid one hand timidly 
upon Mr. Dean’s arm, lifting her sweet, shy, 
proudly grieved face to his, the other hand ten- 
derly resting upon the boy’s head. 


190 * Barclay's Daughter. 

“Mr. Dean,” she said quite steadily, strug- 
gling to be calm, “ Dick has not told you ? I 
might have known that he would not, he has 
always been so thoughtful of me. But — my 
father — struck him — to-night, Mr. Dean, and I 
fear has done him great injury ! ” 

“ No, no ! ” cried Dick eagerly, loosening his 
hold upon Jim’s hand and pulling down the 
hand upon his head to clasp it tightly within 
his own, his face quivering with his earnest wish 
to convince them that he had not been hurt, 
not in the least. “ It is nothing, Mr. Dean, — 
it was nothing, truly! Just a little blow! I 
escaped it, you know, Anne — you, and I ! ” 

Jim Dean looked from one to the other in 
silence. He perfectly understood the situation, 
but he could not bring himself to speak at once. 
That the brutal man in the room above — now 
probably in a sound drunken sleep — had dared 
lift his hand against this frail girl or this weak 
little fellow striving to defend her, was the 
worst he had feared ! He had only feared it ; 
he did not believe that the man would more 
than threaten them, and here he had done the 
worst ! 

He caught his breath hard, and the hand upon 
the door-latch gripped it firmly as though it 


A New Defender. 


191 


were the throat of the man. His eyes grew 
black with indignation and anger. Then, com- 
manding his voice, he bent down to her very 
gently, as he did so laying his right hand pro- 
tectingly over the timid hand on his arm. 

“You need not fear, Miss Barclay,” he said 
kindly, and smiled, looking down upon her. 
“ Dick shall have the best of care when he 
reaches home. It is not probable that he is 
more than slightly injured.” In his mind he 
believed that he was most seriously hurt, know- 
ing what it usually meant for such a weak, de- 
formed little creature to receive a blow of any 
kind, but he would not tell her his fear. “ Are 
you, lad ? And we know that your father is 
not like — this — when he lets liquor alone. Why 
should you apologize? Is it any fault of yours ? 
Do not all your friends know what a brave 
life you lead ? We have had proof enough, 
Dick and I ! ” 

She shrank a little from him timidly as though 
she would not wound him ; she also withdrew 
her hand from his arm and stepped back on the 
lower stair with Dick beside her pityingly. 

“You are very kind,” she said sweetly. “I 
thank you, Mr. Dean. If you will see that no 
harm comes to Didfc it will be more than I 


192 


Barclay s Daughter. 


could ask ! As for my life,” she lifted her head 
proudly again, “ we must answer for our own 
lives, Mr. Dean, and live them ! ” 

She turned away with a parting smile for 
Dick and a shy inclination of her head to the 
man in the now open doorway, and mounting 
the stairs re-entered the room above while the 
outer door closed behind her friends. 

“To dare touch her!” muttered the young 
man wrathfully. 


CHAPTER XIII. 


CONCLUSIVE ARGUMENT. 

“ That best portion of a good man’s life, 

His little, nameless, unremembered acts 
Of kindness and of love.” 

— Wordsworth . 

“ She has no one to protect her,” said Jim 
Dean to himself, “so I shall take it into my 
hands to see what can be done. It isn’t safe 
for Dick to go there, and on his own account, — 
for he truly loves the girl, — I must do what I 
can.” 

He was sitting alone before the grate in the 
old-fashioned, homelike parlor, his mother and 
sister giving their care and attention to Dick, 
who by this time could not hide his suffering 
from the knowledge of his friends, though never 
one murmur of the pain he endured did he be- 
tray. The purple mark upon his shoulder told 
its own story, and the set, white face marked the 
suffering. He could not at first be coaxed into 
showing this mark, that it might be bathed and 
cared for, but, more than that, to have a physi- 

(193) 


>94 


Barclay s Daughter. 


cian or do more than they were doing ; and for 
that night they would let him have his way ; 
it was better so, Jim said, knowing through 
what excitement he had come. 

It took some time to win even this point, and 
they knew that it was because of his thought 
for Anne that he shrank from exposing her 
father’s cruelty, fearing that it might humiliate 
her in their thought. But who could fail to appre- 
ciate motherly Mrs. Dean, or resist Miss Nellie’s 
bright eyes and coaxing voice ? And Dick, in 
spite of his other thought, could not fail to know 
that it was pleasant to have such tender care. 

“ I’ve guessed a good deal how things were 
there,” Jim Dean added in his self-communion, 
crossing his slippered feet upon the fender and 
frowning darkly upon the glowing fire. “ I 
never really knew until to-night, but, knowing, 
I shall take such measures as to place out of 
possibility their ever again occurring. I rather 
think that I have enough influence with Barclay 
for that. It’s a sin and shame for Barclay’s 
daughter to lead such a life, and who is going 
to sit down and endure it ?” 

If he addressed the fire, the fire made no 
answer, but burned on brightly and steadily as 
though it understood that this was its one voca- 


Conclusive Argument. 


195 


tion. But when Nellie Dean came down from 
Dick’s room, leaving him in a broken sleep, her 
answer to his speech was sharp and sudden 
enough. There was no meekness about Miss 
Dean where wrong was in question. She was 
no stolid fire. 

“ It’s just a wicked, wicked shame, Jim !” she 
said, with tears and anger in her eyes and voice 
as she paused beside him, one hand upon the 
back of his chair, her bright face touched into 
full relief by the fire. “To think of Anne Bar- 
clay being treated like that ! The mark on 
Dick’s shoulder was from no light blow, let me 
tell you, and I wish that that man could know 
what I think of him !” 

“ He shall know my opinion of him to- 
morrow,” replied her brother quietly. “ Sit 
down, Nell. How is the little fellow ?” 

“ He is sleeping,” said Nellie, softly now and 
with more tender eyes, as she seated herself, 
clasping her hands upon her knee, one small 
foot just touching the fender, she herself half 
buried in the large bamboo chair and cushions ; 
“ but not soundly, Jim. He starts and cries out 
something about Anne at the least disturbance 
in the room. It is enough to make one’s heart 
ache to think how the poor little lad has been 


196 


Barclay s Daughter. 


schooled in sorrow. And Anne? No wonder 
that she has that beautiful calm upon her face, 
enduring so patiently such a life as hers.” 

“ She shall endure it no longer than I can 
help,” muttered her brother under his breath. 

But she did not hear him, and as, at that mo- 
ment, in answer to a ring at the bell, the neat 
servant girl announced “ Dr. Benton,” there was 
no further chance that evening to discuss this 
subject. 

Jim Dean rose with evident pleasure to meet 
his guest, while charming Nellie could have 
offered him no more delightful welcome than 
with her bright eyes and dimples, her varying 
color and soft voice. And as Mrs. Dean also 
entered, with her usual quiet and undeniable 
assurance of pleasure at his presence, the young 
physician must have been most ungrateful not 
to have appreciated his welcome. 

“ It is such a cold night out of doors,” he 
said, with a hint of embarrassment as he seated 
himself at one side of the fire near Mrs. Dean ; 
“ snowing rather sharply, too ; I could not — or, 
more properly, would not — resist the temptation 
of stopping in for a glimpse at this cheery room 
and your happy selves, Mrs. Dean. Your home 
is so charming ! I miss all such little feminine 


Concltisive Argument. 


1 97 


touches as must go to make a truly home-like 
home in my bachelor quarters. You are to be 
envied, I assure you, Mr. Dean.” 

Young Dean laughed, raised his brows a trifle, 
and nodded. 

“We are very fond of the little house,” he 
replied easily. “ Father gave it to mother as a 
wedding present. Just fit for a woman’s ideal 
of housekeeping, you know. I rather think that 
we all would regret leaving it even to move into 
a larger house, Dr. Benton.” 

“ I am sure that I should,” said Miss Nellie 
positively, with a bright laugh. “ It is so like 
one of the family, Dr. Benton.” 

“ And one not to be parted from,” answered 
Dr. Benton easily. “ How is Dick to-night ? 
No; thank you very kindly for your wish for 
me to remain ; but our time is never our own, 
of course, you have discovered. I must go. I 
merely dropped in for a moment. I shall en- 
deavor to look in upon him to-morrow, Mrs. 
Dean. In spite of the shock of his mother’s 
death, he is perceptibly improving, and I am 
anxious for his strength to increase. Sleeping? 
That is well. Good-night. A pleasant memory 
I have to take with me to my home, Dean. 
Again, good-night.” 


Barclay s Dajighter. 


198 

When he had gone and the outer door had 
shut him into the night, they turned back to the 
fire; and all three were silent for a time after- 
ward, following the same, and yet vastly different, 
lines of thought. 

“ They say that he is a very successful physi- 
cian,” Jim Dean remarked abruptly, as though 
they had been discussing this point. “ In life 
there’s nothing succeeds like success, mother, 
and I’ll fight for my share.” 

The color that flushed his sister’s face at this 
criticism might have been only the reflection of 
the fire, for all notice her brother took of it ; 
but being conscious that she was blushing in 
such an unaccountable manner, she blushed 
harder than ever, until her cheeks were in a glow. 

“ After catching that draught of cold air and 
snow from the outer world when the door was 
opened, how very warm it is in here ! ” she said 
in the most ordinary tone. “ Really, it is quite 
suffocating in here, Jim.” 

She arose and went over to one of the long 
windows opening upon the piazza, and stood 
there for a few moments, parting the drapery 
and gazing out upon the almost deserted avenue 
where the wind and snow were rioting with 
increasing violence. 


Conclusive A rgument. 


199 


And presently she quietly left the room, and 
went up to take a peep at Dick and bring down 
some dainty needlework to finish before prayers 
and bedtime came. 

“ I shall settle old Barclay in the morning,” Jim 
Dean assured himself. “ The storm will make 
no difference to him about going out to his 
cronies and gossip around some saloon fire. I 
can meet him easy enough. I will succeed for 
her sake — and Dick’s.” 

And although the storm had abated and no 
snow fell, a pale glimmer of sunlight making the 
world weird with yellow light, young Dean 
waited, loitering, in spite of the sharp wind, 
near Anne’s home until her father appeared. 

Seeing him slouching out with unsteady 
limbs and trembling hands and sullen face, he 
hesitated about addressing him ; but remember- 
ing that it was seldom this man was in any more 
favorable condition, and also recalling the scene 
of the previous night, and Dick’s suffering that 
morning because of the cruel blow upon his 
shoulder, Dean rapidly lost this feeling of diffi- 
dence, and, crossing the street, linked his arm in 
the old man’s arm, and addressed him. 

“Good-morning, Mr. Barclay,” he said. 

“ Oh, it’s you,” said the man gruffly, with a 


200 


Barclay s Daughter. 


lowering look under his heavy brows. “ Al’ays 
a-meddlin’ with other folks, Jim Dean. Al’ays 
meddlin’ an’ pert. I wonder ’t you left Mil- 
lard’s, you had such a chance to sass back there 
when honest men come in for drinks as they’d 
’a’ paid for honest.” 

“ Yes,” replied the young man calmly, taking 
no notice of the last part of his remarks, some- 
thing in his steady eyes and voice that caused 
the old man to shrink from him. “ But I didn’t 
come this morning to speak of myself, Barclay. 
I came to speak of you, and your daughter.” 

“ And my daughter ! ” repeated Barclay irri- 
tably. “ And my daughter ! An’ what of my 
daughter, Jim Dean? Folks has tried to med- 
dle an’ spoil her for the past months, an’ I won’t 
have ” 

“That’s just it,” interrupted Dean quietly. 
“ I won’t have any more of such actions in rela- 
tion to Miss Barclay as occurred last night, Bar- 
clay. Remember what I told you then, and re- 
member this, too : Unless you change your mode 
of low, vagabond, helpless existence, and not 
suffer your daughter to work as she is doing for 
you, I shall have the law on you for a vagabond, 
and you know what that means when it’s pretty 
well pushed. I’m not threatening you — I’m 


Conclusive A rgument. 


201 


only warning. Choose, and you may as well 
choose within the week ; after that — well ! I 
have seen more than I will endure again. Re- 
member that ! ” 

And Barclay stood, stunned, on the corner of 
the windy street staring stupidly after the manly 
figure disappearing among the crowd — never 
dreaming that his daughter would be artfully 
tried to prove her strength of principle : for 
Mrs. Millard, complaining of loneliness the 
evening after her daughter’s wedding, decided to 
send for Anne Barclay to assist her in clearing 
the rooms. 

“ I want some young life about me,” she said. 
“ I must do something to drive out the blues ; 
and I want some one who was fond of Minnie. 
You see, my dear Harry, Minnie was interested 
in her! Minnie had peculiar ideas, you know, 
regarding some things — too fine sensitiveness, 
too keen an appreciation of the suffering of 
others ; and at such times she would have no 
one around her but this girl. She was so sooth- 
ing, she said, so perfectly embodying peace ! 

" I intend to prove this for myself. I always 
liked the girl ; she is not at all presuming and 
is perfectly ladylike — as it is to be hoped every 
one is, excepting that we know they are not, — 


202 


Barclay s Daughter. 


some people, I mean, of course — and I shall 
send the carriage for her to-morrow morning. 
She can assist me in many ways ; Minnie’s room 
is to be set in order and her things disposed of. 
If the girl is not too proud, there are many 
things which I should think would be accept- 
able to her.” 

This rather lengthy explanation was uttered 
as calmly and slowly as was usual with Mrs. 
Millard. Her face and voice betrayed no sign 
of inner sadness or loneliness ; and had her hus- 
band not known her well he might have believed 
her lacking even motherly affection for her 
daughter. But understanding her pride and 
dislike of shallow effusiveness, he knew that 
her heart ached for the pretty, happy bride gone 
from the home. 

He was very kind to her, knowing this, also. 
He smiled upon her, but not in amusement, as 
she calmly lay down, as she talked, the book 
which she had been reading, and kept her place 
with one graceful finger-tip. The paper which 
he had been reading rustled loudly as he half 
folded it upon his knee, the better to grant her 
his attention. 

“ I shall be pleased if there is anything you 
can do for Miss Barclay, Mary,” he said, and 


Conclusive A rgument. 203 

his pleasant voice possessed still deeper kind- 
ness. “ I believe that she deserves the encour- 
agement and assistance of every one ; but I 
warn you that she is proud. Very proud. She 
will not accept charity, and if you would assist 
her you must do it in some other way than 
that. 

“ You look surprised at my knowledge of your 
pale little seamstress. My dear, in this room 
during Minnie’s illness, when this girl came 
with an offering of flowers to prove her remem- 
brance, I offered her any assistance in my power ; 
I offered to obtain her father a remunerative 
position, that so they might be placed in better 
circumstances ; I offered the little lame boy 
who was with her, a position also. Miss Bar- 
clay said, in her pride, that her father is in poor 
health and unable to work ; there was nothing 
that I could do ; she thanked me most prettily, 
but my effort fell rather flat. The boy too — 
I like the boy — with a queer, old-fashioned dig- 
nity informed me that he had work, had had it 
a long time — imagine it, Mary, when the little 
fellow was nothing but a mite ! — and did not 
need my help ! Old Barclay’s an idle vagabond 
who does not wish to work, but so his daughter 
defended him ! Talk about the pride of the 


204 


Barclay s Daughter. 


aristocracy! Look at them! It is quite use. 
less for you to offer them charity.” 

He smiled with great comprehension of the 
matter, crossing his slippered feet in self-satis- 
faction ; but his wife only slightly shrugged her 
shoulders and elevated her brows. 

“ Perhaps you do not understand the art of 
offering charity,” she said. “ There are few will 
refuse if it is offered aright. Wait until after 
to-morrow, Harry.” 

And Harry Millard, although he believed 
that he knew how fine was the girl’s pride, had 
learned from experience that silence in such 
matters was best, and he maintained it. 

And upon the following day, shortly after 
Jim Dean parted from old Barclay on the cor- 
ner of the street, the handsome carriage with 
its high-stepping black horses and liveried at- 
tendants, halted at Barclay’s gate and the foot- 
man delivered his message to Anne at the door. 
She could easily arrange her work so that she 
could leave for the day, and knowing how 
lonely Mrs. Millard must be without her daugh- 
ter, though it never occurred to her that the 
woman sent for her upon that account, she 
decided to go ; and having already tidied the 
rooms she was ready to leave in a few minutes. 


Conclusive Argument. 


205 


Her father’s desire that she should have noth- 
ing to do with the Millards did not include 
such work as they might have for her to do, so 
she had no hesitation whatever in going. On 
her way home she would stop and see how Dick 
was. Mr. Dean said that he could not be in- 
jured much, but her heart trembled when she 
thought what might possibly be the truth. 

Mrs. Millard welcomed her kindly, but in her 
usual proud manner, almost unconsciously im- 
pressing the fact of her wealth upon those be- 
neath her socially. But Anne, if she noticed 
this, did not betray it. 

“ My daughter was pleased to have you about 
her when she was at home,” said Mrs. Millard 
graciously ; “so I sent for you, Anne, to help 
me about the house and to arrange Miss Min- 
nie’s wardrobe. She left so many of her things, 
her pretty dresses and laces and hats, because of 
her over-abundance in her wedding outfit ! If 
you are like other girls, Anne — and most girls 
are alike to a certain degree in such matters — 
you will find it rather pleasant work with me 
to-day.” 

She smiled, and Anne smiled back upon 
her, but there was that subtle suggestion of 
pride about the latter that Mrs. Millard post- 


206 


Barclay s Daughter. 


poned for the time the offer of any present to 
Anne. Even her fine art of offering charity 
failed before the quiet seamstress. 

They went about the house together ; looked 
over and sorted Minnie’s pretty gowns and laces 
and ribbons, the hundred and one things that a 
charming woman cultivates for her adornment ; 
they talked of Minnie almost continually, Mrs. 
Millard telling and Anne listening to the details 
of the wedding, the guests, the gifts, the mag- 
nificent flowers, the dinner, and the pretty bride 
herself ; how altogether sweet she was in her 
happiness and how very happy she was and 
must be, having chosen such a husband — “ cul- 
tivated, wealthy, honorable ! ” 

And Anne, listening, could not dispel from 
her memory Nellie Dean’s whispered fear of a 
sad life for the one or the other because of that 
one weak principle that both possessed and 
neither recognized as fatal to their happiness. 
But, looking into the mother’s proud face and 
catching the note of perfect satisfaction in her 
voice, silently commending her own care and 
wisdom, it was not Anne Barclay’s way to 
darken such by any word of hers. 

And by and by, when they had worked to- 
gether a long time and both were fatigued, Mrs. 


Conclusive Argument. 207 

Millard ordered for Anne and herself a couple 
of glasses of wine. 

“It will rest you and do you good ; you need 
some such stimulant,” said Mrs. Millard, offering' 
Anne a glass. 

The wine was red and sparkling — very pretty 
in the thin, crystal glass, but Anne gently refused. 

“I thank you, Mrs. Millard; you are kind,” 
she said ; “ but I could not accept it.” 

A half scornful smile stirred Mrs. Millard’s 
lips. She knew that this girl’s father was a 
drunkard, but drinking one glass when one was 
fatigued was worlds apart from the other mode 
of taking too much ! 

“ Don’t be foolish, Anne,” she said ; “ I dis- 
like fanaticism ! As though I would offer you 
anything that could harm you ! My daughter 
is no drunkard, and yet this was my custom 
with her when weak or ill. If it did not harm 
my daughter it cannot harm you. Come, 
Anne ! ” she added, unwilling to give this up 
as she was forced to give up her scheme of 
charitable assistance for the girl. 

But Anne was firm. She lifted her clear eyes 
to Mrs. Millard’s face as though pleading with 
her to comprehend the wrong that she would 
do, as she answered softly but very quietly : 


20S Barclay s Daughter. 

“ No, Mrs. Millard. Remembering my father, 
I could not ! ” 

And some way in this as in her desire to offer 
charity, Mrs. Millard felt that the pale, still girl 
was above her ; that her husband, after all, was 
right, and she, even in her pride, obliged to yield 
to force of circumstances ; even then she would 
not acknowledge that it was purely principle 
and not a trace of stubborn fanaticism ! 


CHAPTER XIV. 


LOVING DECEPTION. 

" The one was little and feeble ; 

The other was straight and strong ; 

And the strong one helped the feeble one 
Because the way was long.” 

After office hours, starting out upon his 
round of calls, Dr. Benton drove up the avenue 
leading to the Deans’ house upon that same 
morning. He was, from necessity, silent as he 
rode along, for he was alone ; he seldom had his 
driver accompany him, as it was Dr. Benton’s 
way to use the vacant seat beside him for some 
patient who needed exercise and air, and had 
not the way to provide such for himself. 

Most often this place was given some young 
fellow eager for recovered health that he might 
return to his post of duty in business ; or some 
man past the prime of life, who was grateful for 
this attention from a man who was himself 
young, enterprising, prosperous, who might so 
easily have forgotten him and his comfort. 
Sometimes he was accompanied by some white- 

(209) 


2 10 


Barclay s Daughter. 


haired, gentle-faced woman, whose hands proved 
how her life had been spent in struggle for ex- 
istence ; sometimes some child was shown what 
seemed a bit of heaven, behind the chestnut 
horse, moving so easily and luxuriously along 
among the downy cushions of the carriage. 
But of them all, never a man in the younger 
years of his manhood. Either very young or 
very old. 

But Dr. Benton was alone that morning as he 
drove briskly up the windy avenue, where the 
light fall of snow was already almost trodden out 
of sight under the hoofs and feet of street pas- 
sengers ; where wild gusts rioted and the yellow- 
ish glimmer of pale sunlight struck through 
long trails of streaky clouds from horizon to 
zenith, threatening storm. 

Snow in the air, and bitter, biting weather; 
but the young physician’s heart was warm as he 
rode along, and what was the weather to him ? 
He shook the reins over the back of his horse, 
smiling as the thought occurred to him. 

He made three professional calls on his way 
up the avenue before he came to the Deans’. 
In all these he was his attentive, careful self, 
that made him almost always among his patients 
a friend as well as physician, and that made 


Loving Deception. 


211 


many of these patients watch with pleasure for 
his coming. One of the three was a widow 
whose little daughter was very ill with fever, 
whom the doctor was doing all in his power to 
save; they lived in a little house with a tiny 
lawn and huge trees around it, and were all in 
all to each other. 

This was one of Dr. Benton’s most trying 
cases, because the mother was so nearly dis- 
tracted with grief and fear that her fits of 
hysteria and pleading with him to use the 
utmost extent of his power to save her darling, 
were exceedingly hard for him to endure with 
patience. But it was his patience that won their 
hearts as well as his sympathy, and they told 
him their cares and sorrows until, but for his 
happy temperament, his life must have been 
embittered by the sorrow about him. 

The other two calls were of ordinary conse- 
quence, needing merely a simple prescription ; 
and as the doctor drew the robe over his lap and 
took up the lines, driving away, he sighed un- 
consciously, as though some weight were lifted 
from his shoulders and he were free to breathe. 

“ If the little chap is able,” he said to himself 
~as he hurried his horse, “ the ride will do him 
good in spite of the cold. He doesn’t have 


212 


Barclay's Daughter. 


enough exercise. I should like to bring color 
into that pale face of his.” 

The chestnut horse tossed his head, champing 
his bit as though he would say that he under- 
stood and would do his best for the little 
chap. 

Dr. Benton laughed. His spirits were light- 
ening as he neared the pretty home set back 
from the street, with its tiny conservatory at one 
side resting the eyes of the passers-by with its 
blooming plants, its cosy parlor with the grate 
fire flickering defiance to any weather, and the 
assured warm welcome from the gentle mistress 
and pretty daughter. 

“ Yes, you are almost there, Damon,” he said 
heartily, “and I’ll not keep you standing long 
in the cold.” 

But when once inside it was hard to get away ; 
doubly hard when there was a patient sorely 
needing careful attention. For he found that 
the hoped-for exercise for Dick was impossi- 
ble ; the boy was suffering intense pain from 
the heavy blow upon his shoulder ; it had not 
only blackened the shoulder, but the cord had 
swelled rather alarmingly, and to attempt to lie 
do^n was most excruciating. He was sitting 
up in bed, pillowed high, when the doctor en- 


Loving Deception. 213 

tered, but turned his white face with a brave 
smile upon him. 

“He’s the dearest fellow!” murmured Miss 
Nellie, who had been sitting with the boy when 
the physician came, her bright eyes hinting of 
tears as she stood beside the bed, running her 
fingers lightly and caressingly through his hair. 
“ Not one cross word or the least fault-finding, 
doctor. And we all know how much he has 
suffered through the night. We wanted to send 
for you, but he would not hear of it, and it so 
evidently worried him that we left it until you 
should come. It was such a wicked, wicked 
blow ! ” 

Dr. Benton looked up quickly. He was care- 
fully turning back one corner of the shirt from 
off the shoulder, exposing to view the black 
mark and swollen cord. A frown was deepen- 
ing between his brows ; his eyes were keen as 
he glanced up at Miss Nellie. 

“ So !” he said. “I thought that this was no 
injury from a fall. It’s rather a bad-looking 
fellow, but we’ll fix it up as comfortably as we 
can for now, and by and by it will grow better. 
How did it happen, Dick ?” 

Warm, indignant color was flushing Miss 
Dean’s face, and her red lips parted as though 


2 14 Barclay's Daughter. 

of themselves they would rehearse the cruel 
story. 

Dr. Benton, seeing this eloquent face, shrewd- 
ly guessed of some unpleasant scene behind it, 
but could not believe that it was any cruelty 
from the hands of young Dean ; but neither he 
nor Miss Nellie could utter their thought, with 
the boy’s pale face and brave eyes and close- 
shut mouth, one trembling hand raised to silence 
them ere they could speak. There was a strange 
quivering across the whole face that came from 
mental rather than physical pain, at sight of 
which Miss Nellie bit her lip and was silent, 
and Dr. Benton gently bathed the bruised shoul- 
der with a soothing lotion, after administering a 
quieting powder that should ease the sensation 
of suffering. 

“ A bad bruise, Dick,” the doctor said gravely, 
keeping his eyes studiously away from the boy’s 
face, lest he should think that he would by his 
gaze wrest the truth from him. “ Y ou’ll keep the 
mark a long time, lad, but not the pain, I hope.” 

“ It don’t pain much,” protested Dick eagerly, 
in his piping voice. “ I don’t ’special’ mind the 
hurt, Dr. Benton. Often an’ often I’ve had as 
much pain with my back. ’Tain’t nice, but it 
gets better after a time. ’Tain’t that I mind.” 


Loving Deception. 215 

“No?” queried the physician gently, the 
strong, firm fingers bathing the bruise seeming 
by their simple magnetism to relieve the pain. 
“ What is it you mind then, Dick lad ? ” 

Miss Nellie, leaning tenderly beside the boy, 
started once more as though she would speak, 
but checked herself as the little fellow’s great, 
grave, pleading eyes were instantly lifted to hers. 

“ I was a-thinkin’ how it was done,” said Dick 
very slowly, as though he were indeed deeply 
buried in some thought new to him, a flickering 
tinge of color in his cheeks, his one free hand 
restlessly pulling at the bed covering. “ ’Tain’t 
nice to remember, Dr. Benton. Somethin’ fell ; 
I someway got in front of it an’ was hurt. 
’Tain’t nobody’s fault, truly — ’tain’t nobody’s 
fault but mine.” 

“Well!” said Dr. Benton lightly and reassur- 
ingly. “ If it’s nobody’s fault but yours, Dick, 
my lad, I should advise you to keep out of the 
way of such accidents in future. Many such 
blows might not end so well as this.” 

And Dick looked up swiftly, half fearing that 
with his usual keenness the physician had fath- 
omed the cause of his hurt. 

But, after leaving preparations for the boy 
and directions how to use them, the physician 


2 1 6 Barclay s Daughter. 

stood for a moment in the lower hall, drawing 
on his gloves as he asked of Miss Nellie quite 
sternly if Dick were away yesterday. 

And Miss Nellie, with this same swift rush of 
indignant color in her dimpled cheeks, knowing 
not what else to say, answered hesitatingly with 
the truth. 

“ He stayed with Miss Barclay until quite 
late, Dr. Benton. Jim went for him at night.” 

“ Is Miss Barclay well ? ” 

“ Yes.” 

“How does her father get along? Was he 
at home, Miss Dean ?” 

And feeling the hot color in her cheeks at the 
impossibility of other answer, Miss Dean replied 
that he was at home, her face telling the rest. 

And there was need of no further explanation 
of the injury to Dick. 

And in the meantime, Mrs. Millard, annoyed 
and humiliated at Anne’s firm refusal to take 
wine with her, lost considerable of her cordiality 
toward Anne as the day grew late and the hour 
approached for her to leave. 

Anne noticed the change, and knew quite 
well the cause, and although she sincerely 
regretted having offended Minnie’s mother — 
the woman who had always been kind to her, 


Loving Deception. 


217 


she felt that she had done right ; therefore she 
did what was in her power, by gentleness and 
thoughtful attention, to dispel this feeling. 

Anne, with her sweetness of manner and 
calm, pale face, with her unassuming purity of 
thought and motive, almost invariably able to 
quiet angry thought or soften any hurt, found 
that she was powerless here. 

Mrs. Millard was intensely proud, and al- 
though not so sensitive as her husband upon the 
subject of the use and abuse of liquor, yet it was 
not pleasant to learn from such a girl as Anne 
Barclay what were the effects of liquor and the 
threatened outcome of even a casual glass. 

“ To be lectured by such a person — a mere 
chit of a girl, and in her position — upon the 
right and wrong of the world ! ” thought Mrs. 
Millard as she watched Anne preparing to leave, 
with a feeling of relief that was strangely min- 
gled with a sensation of uneasiness of conscience 
for which she could not account, but that made 
her still more proud and cold in manner toward 
the girl. “ Pray, what would Harry say, if he 
knew ? ” 

But as Harry was not there, and Anne was, 
Mrs. Millard made polite haste to be rid of her. 

“ I will ring for the carriage,” she said, as 


2 1 8 


Barclay's Daughter. 


Anne was pinning on her hat and arranging a 
light veil about it to hold it in place, for the 
storm had come, and snow and wind were sweep- 
ing the streets. “ It is not fit for you to walk 
to-night, Anne.” 

But Anne, turning smilingly from the mirror, 
shook her head. 

“ Oh, no,” she said gently. “ I would not 
have you do so, Mrs. Millard. I never mind 
storm, especially snow. I can take the cars part 
of the way, and, besides, I intend going up to 
Mrs. Dean’s to see Dick before going home, and 
I would not have you bother.” 

Nevertheless, whether to soothe her con- 
science or because she felt that she had been 
unjust, Mrs. Millard made a faint effort to per- 
suade her to wait for the carriage ; whereat Anne 
still gently refused, assuring her that she did not 
in the least object to walking even in bad 
weather, having so little time for exercise. So 
Mrs. Millard allowed her to have her way, 
rather glad in her heart to be so easily rid of 
such an absurd fanatic, and pondering what she 
should say to her husband in extenuation of her 
defeat in her plan of charity. 

“ Girls are so ridiculously extreme when they 
are at all headstrong,” she said to herself. And 


Loving Deception. 


2ig 


then dismissed the girl and the subject together 
so far as such things are under human control. 
She paid Anne well for her day’s assistance. 
What more could be expected of her ? 

But as Anne Barclay left the handsome 
house, a fierce gust of wind bursting around 
the corner of the piazza, laden with a dense 
shroud of snow, dashed upon her and almost 
tore the umbrella from her hands ; she was not 
thinking of the harsh treatment she received 
from the mistress of this beautiful home ; she 
was not even so much thinking of the mistress 
in any sense as of the daughter — the pretty, 
young bride — going out from under its roof, 
from the old home shelter with the fiery seeds 
of a destroying demon lurking in her blood, 
planted in her nature by her mother’s hand and 
the example of both parents. 

The scene in her memory vividly returned of 
the old church, with its deep, solemn shadows, 
and avenues of light from window to window 
across this darkness ; of the crowd of guests and 
uninvited witnesses making the church alive 
with perfume and the soft rustle of beautiful 
costumes, and handsome faces ; of the peal of 
bells from the high tower, and the swelling 
wedding march throbbing through arches and 


220 


Barclay s Daughter. 


aisles ; of the pretty bride kneeling at the altar 
with the man of her choice and her parents’ 
choice, while the grave words of the ceremony 
were uttered above them ; of that one sifted line 
of rich red from the western window lightly 
lying upon the bride’s bowed head like wine 
from a broken goblet, staining even the ex- 
quisite lace of her veil. 

Could it be possible, Anne asked herself 
sadly, knowing the full sadness of the question, 
that the rich wine stain might in the future that 
looked only rose color to the bride, touch her 
heart to its grief ? And any resentment that 
might have lain in her own heart against Mrs. 
Millard when she left the house was utterly 
driven out by this scarcely defined fear for the 
daughter and bride, as she stopped an uptown 
car and hastened on her way to Dick, to be as- 
sured with her own eyes that he truly was not 
injured by the effects of this same liquor in her 
father’s blood. 

Dick, with the thought of Anne always up- 
permost, was perfectly convinced that she would 
come to him in the course of the day, and in- 
sisted upon being dressed, or partly dressed, and 
allowed to sit up in a chair, that when she should 
come she could see for herself that there was 


Loving Deception. 


221 


nothing much the matter with him. He was 
feverish and excited, and would not be put off. 

His request was refused many times, for he 
cvas very weak and the slightest movement was 
accompanied with extreme pain ; but as the day 
wore on, and the boy’s face grew more and more 
flushed and wistful and his pulse beat high with 
feverish anxiety, Miss Nellie, his self-appointed 
nurse, with her tender heart could no longer en- 
dure his pleading, and writing a dainty, troubled 
note upon the prettiest of scented paper, she 
sent the little maid-servant with it to Dr. Ben- 
ton, asking his advice. 

And Dr. Benton, smiling as he read the be- 
seeching little note of appeal, sent in reply a 
grave, strong, comforting letter, telling Miss 
Dean that if she and her mother considered it 
wise from what they saw of the boy’s condition 
to let him have his way, they had perhaps better 
yield to his desire, but to do so only when Miss 
Barclay had arrived, one or the other detaining 
her in the parlor while the patient was being- 
made ready to receive her. And as this kind 
letter ended with the promise that the physician 
would call in later in the evening, when Miss 
Barclay would have come and gone if she were 
coming, in order to know Dick’s condition after 


222 


Barclay s Daughter. 


the interview, Miss Dean was greatly relieved, 
and at once assured Dick that he should have 
his way when Anne came. 

The stormy day was fading slowly into 
twilight in a ghostly fashion, the snowflakes, 
blown about, filling the air and beating 
against window and door, when at last Anne 
came. Mrs. Dean was in the cheery parlor to 
receive her when the little servant announced 
that she had arrived, and Miss Nellie was with 
Dick waiting to prepare him as soon as she- 
should be assured that Anne had come. After 
she arrived there was a quiet bustle in the boy’s 
room for a few minutes, as with the maid’s as- 
sistance Nellie made Dick comfortable among the 
cushions piled in the steamer chair that had been 
converted deftly into an invalid chair ; and he was 
sitting quite like his old self, with the bright bitsof 
paper in his lap and faint, excited color in his 
cheeks, and with shining eyes when Anne came in. 

Miss Dean went down for Miss Barclay when 
all was prepared, saying quite naturally, as a 
matter of course, that Dr. Benton was keeping 
Dick very quiet, as he had some plan by which 
he hoped to benefit him, and that was why she 
took Miss Barclay up to him instead of having 
him down to see her. And as the boy was 


Loving Deception. 


223 


really looking remarkably well, with the color in 
his cheeks and those bright eyes, even though 
his lips were hot as though with fever when she 
bent to kiss him, why should Anne not believe 
Miss Dean’s explanation for his keeping his 
room ? And lest she should fear some harm in 
spite of all this evidence to the contrary, did 
the brave, loving lad not move his left hand pain- 
fully among the bright papers to show her that 
there could be nothing wrong, keeping down by 
a struggle the cry of pain that rose to his lips 
and almost betrayed him to her searching eyes ? 

She could stay only for a moment, she told 
him ; she just ran in on her way from Mrs. Mil- 
lard’s to see if he were all right ; she must hurry 
home to prepare her father’s dinner, a flush 
mounting her face at mentioning his name. 

And when she was gone they put him ten- 
derly to bed, tears in Miss Nellie’s eyes for his 
suffering ; and when the physician came he found 
the lad in a raging fever and delirious, and would 
not leave him, but remained with him through 
the night, watching him most tenderly as a 
brother might, with Miss Nellie in the next 
room ready to render him assistance if neces- 
sary, and the entire household ready to do what 
they could for the brave, affectionate boy. 


CHAPTER XV. 


THROUGH THE SNOW. 

“ Confidence is a plant of slow growth in an aged bosom.” 
— William Pitt . 

As Anne left the Deans her heart was much 
lighter regarding Dick than when she was hur- 
rying to see him. She had seen with her own 
eyes that the boy was comfortable ; that he had 
about him everything that he could desire ; that 
his friends gave him most kind, most tender 
care ; there was color in the usually pale face, 
and the great grave eyes were bright. Both 
Mrs. Dean and Miss Nellie had assured her that 
he was doing finely ; that even the physician 
spoke of his improved appearance only the pre- 
vious night, and that he was the best little fel- 
low in the city. 

This warm praise from his friends and Dick’s 
own eager assurance that he was all right and very 
happy should have satisfied her, but strangely 
enough it did not. There was a restless feeling 
(224) 


Through the Snow. 


225 


of certainty in her heart that her father must 
have injured the boy ; she knew the force of his 
angry arm and how heavy the hand could be 
when it struck. The lad was weak from his 
deformity ; weak from his hard, scant life ; weak 
from years of suffering ; how could he have 
escaped without some great, some intense suf- 
fering ? 

Her heart was heavy in spite of what she had 
seen and heard in the pretty home she just left, 
and she lingered for a moment on the steps as 
though she could not go and leave the lad. 

With every added moment of the late after- 
noon the storm increased, and as Anne paused 
on the steps the wind and snow were howling 
fiercely around her, tearing at her gossamer, 
beating down her umbrella, striking her madly 
in the face and, like rioters, heedless of all things 
in its licensed recklessness. It was a bitter 
night for any one to be upon the streets, and 
hurriedly running down the steps and along 
the walk as a car came in sight, regardless of 
her uncovered head, as she found it impossible 
to raise her umbrella, Anne lingered no longer, 
remembering that her father would soon be at 
home needing a warm fire and light and com- 
fort then if ever he would. 


226 


Barclay s Daughter. 


She left Dick in good hands ; she could do 
nothing for him ; she must attend to her duty 
at home. 

It was too far to think of walking home in 
that storm and with her father likely to come 
at any moment ; so she boarded the car and 
was glad to be sheltered even in that way from 
the fury of the storm. It was a terrible storm 
indeed. The night would not be utterly dark 
with that ghostly sheet of snow, to be sure, in 
spite of the black heavens ; and the street lamps 
began to glow and flare against the blasts when 
Anne alighted from the car. She still had four 
blocks to walk to her home, and she shivered 
as she kept tight hold of her umbrella, lest it be 
wrenched from her hand by the violent wind 
that made it impossible to raise it for protec- 
tion. 

“ It is dreadful ! ” said Anne, trying to button 
her coat closer about her throat with one hand, 
only to be obliged to grasp her hat to keep it 
on, and pause a moment to hold her footing. 
“ If ever father will need a good, warm fire and 
a hot dinner, he will to-night.” 

And stopping in a market on her way, she 
bought a few things that she hoped would 
please him, and hurried on to prepare them 


Through the Snow. 227 

against his coming. She had no thought that 
he might be there before her. He never had 
been. Since his wife died — he led a compara- 
tively good life up to that time and worked for 
her and their daughter — he had drifted among 
loose companions with loose consciences, whose 
sole aim in life seemed to be to have enough to 
eat and drink and gossip about ; and his daugh- 
ter as she grew older was obliged to work for 
them both. 

Perhaps the sight of her pale face bent over 
the endless sewing that was meat and drink and 
shelter to them, was more than even he could 
bear ; certain it is that he went out from home 
as soon as he ate his breakfast in the morning 
and did not return until dark. So Anne did 
not think of his arriving at home first and hav- 
ing to wait on the stairs for her return, as the 
door was locked and she had the key. 

She no more thought of his being at home 
before her than she thought of stumbling upon 
the man whom she stumbled upon at the next 
corner ! She was hurrying through the blinding 
snow with her head down, keeping fast hold of 
her packages and umbrella, when she almost ran 
into the arms of some one coming toward her. 

Lifting her head with a soft apology for the 


22 $ 


Barclay s Daughter. 


accident, she was surprised and somewhat con- 
fused to find that this was Mr. Dean. 

“ Miss Barclay !” he exclaimed in surprise, as 
though he had had no thought of seeing her, 
instead of going that way purposely to look up 
at her window where the light always shone 
after dusk like a beacon, and also to watch if 
her father returned sober ; and seeing no light 
in the window, knew that she was away, but 
must shortly return, as she never kept her father 
waiting; and had waited to see that she re- 
turned safely, himself unseen. 

“ Such a terrible night !” said Anne, pausing 
only a moment to regain composure. She would 
not question why he was there for she feared his 
reply. “ I have just come from Dick. I am glad 
he is doing so nicely and has such kind friends, 
Mr. Dean ! He seems very happy.” 

He had turned at once, walking with her, 
taking the packages and umbrella from her arms 
and drawing one soft hand firmly through his 
arm, shielding her as best he could from the 
hurling gusts as they swept around them. 
There were few foot passengers upon the streets, 
and such as there were, were hurrying like them- 
selves to reach the shelter of home. 

“ Surely,” exclaimed Dean, bending his head 


Through the Snow. 


229 


lower to reach her height, “ you have not walked 
from my home down here in this terrible storm, 
Miss Barclay ! How could my mother have al- 
lowed you to do it — how could you do it ! ” 

“ But I didn’t do it,” replied Anne. They 
were passing a street lamp and she lifted her 
face to him, answering, in spite of the storm. 

He started, looking at her. The sharp air, 
the driving snow and winds had beaten warm 
color into the usually pale cheeks ; her eyes 
were bright ; her lips, too, were red as though 
new life had come to her that night through the 
storm. He had not dreamed that she could be 
so beautiful. The purity and sweetness of her 
face made her lovely in all eyes ; but to-night, 
lifting her face to him, with the snow and winds 
beating upon it, she was more than lovely, she 
was very beautiful. 

It was only a passing glimpse of what she 
was capable under different and happier circum- 
stances ; the lamp was behind them and they 
were turning down the narrow street to her 
home, she clinging half timidly to him, he bend- 
ing to her; but it was a glimpse that remained 
with him, as a photograph is taken in an instant 
with a flash of reflected light. 

They were silent after her swift denial until 


230 


Barclay s Daughter. 


he had taken the key from her and opened the 
outer door. The light in the hall was none of 
the brightest, but coming from the outer dark- 
ness and riot of wind and snow even this faint 
light was rather blinding. Neither for the mo- 
ment saw the man upon the stairs. 

“ Thank you ; no ; I will not go in to-night,” 
said Dean in answer to her hesitating invitation 
for him to enter. “ If you are certain that you 
will have no difficulty in opening the inner door 
I will leave you now, Miss Barclay. Good- 
night.” He hesitated an instant as she stood 
with the packages in her arms as he had care- 
fully placed them, a vision of true womanhood, 
and then, still with his head uncovered, stand- 
ing before her, he added: “And God bless 

t >> 

you ! 

Then the door was shut, and he was gone, 
and the storm shrieked derisively, beating 
against the house. While Anne, feeling the 
unusual touch of tears in her eyes, turned has- 
tily up the stairs, only then seeing the man 
awaiting her on the landing above. 

“ Father ! ” she said softly, surprise, regret, 
and fear in her voice. “ I never imagined that 
it was so late ! I am so sorry to have kept you 
waiting.” 


Through the Snow. 


231 


But he only answered gruffly : 

“ Then hurry and open the door, will you ? 
Less said the better ! ” 

His voice was steady if rough, and the ab- 
sence of stale tobacco-smoke and liquor that 
was usually upon him proved also to Anne’s 
quick perception that he was sober. It was the 
first time since he had fallen into the bad habit, 
and Anne could scarcely believe the evidence 
of her senses. Her hand trembled as she set 
the key in the lock and opened the door. 

Anne hurriedly placed her packages on the 
table, and after lighting the lamp and drawing 
the curtains, the hall door still standing open, 
her father upon the landing, she called him in, 
going to the door and reaching out her hand. 

“ Come, father,” she said. 

It was Anne’s old gentle, pitying voice, but 
the man upon the landing seemed to shrink 
into himself at sight of her face in its bright 
glow of color. Perhaps the sight brought back 
the memory of that time when his wife and 
Anne, a bright-faced child, looked to him for 
their good and did not look in vain. When he 
won the respect of all and did not stand in need 
of his daughter’s support. It was bitter to 
think how he had retrograded in the social scale, 


232 Barclay s Daughter. 

in the eyes of his friends, in his own eyes, and 
even in the eyes of this slender girl who alone 
was loyal to him. 

To be threatened as young Dean threatened 
him that morning, was humiliating ; at first he 
was too much astonished to offer indignant self- 
vindication ; when he realized what it meant 
he was furiously angry and returned muttered 
threat for each threat ; afterward when his wrath 
had somewhat fallen, in spite of his pride, his 
boasted self-respect, in spite of the dulled edge 
of his manliness, his lost — and wasted — years, 
he saw what he must be to others. 

It was bitter, biting, maddening even to his 
degraded sense of justice. He had had his eyes 
rudely opened and he had himself to examine, 
debase, and judge. He was possessed with un- 
satisfying restlessness ; in spite of the raw day 
he walked and walked, down this street and 
that, up and across ; past saloons without num- 
ber, with their reckless devotees and enticing 
murmur of voices and swinging doors so easy 
to open and that swung back upon one entering 
very quickly unless he were upon the lookout. 

The raw wind increased, the snow came down 
at first in spurts of hard ice points, afterward 
gathering in drifts of sweeping white ; and still 


Through the Snow. 


233 


he walked and walked, not thinking of fatigue 
or hunger with that wakened fire of old hopes, 
old ambitions, old promises fallen to fiery ashes 
upon his wasted years of idleness, neglect, and 
debauchery. 

He did not yield to conscience without a 
struggle ; he had for so long been accustomed 
to drown thought that with all his remaining 
mental strength he sought to drown it now ; but 
at Dean’s words it had lifted like a mad river 
above its walls and would not be kept down by 
such feeble strength as a drunkard’s trembling 
hands. 

He stood accused and judged by himself! 
But why should he yield to that young fellow ? 
Who was Jim Dean that he should rise for his 
humiliation in defence of his daughter? Had 
he not himself encouraged the use of liquor, 
and with his own hands passed the glasses across 
the bar to those who bought ? He was not a 
bartender now, to be sure, but he had been one. 
Should he let him lay down the law to him, 
John Barclay, and accept his terms meekly? 
Not he — not he, indeed ! And yet, as so he 
argued angrily, the truth stood distinctly before 
him in the midst of the snow like some immov- 
able ghost to his distorted vision. 


234 


Barclay s Daughter. 


No matter what Jim Dean was, he had set 
John Barclay before himself as he was; and 
John Barclay wrestled with his good angel and 
would not yield, and could not conquer. 

As the day grew late and the storm increased 
in fury, Barclay went home, passing his old 
haunts sullenly yet driven by some power past 
entering, or looking in lest he be tempted. It 
was no noble resolution to resist temptation that 
carried him safely by ; it was some invisible 
force within him, good and evil struggling to- 
gether, that lifted his mental power above his 
physical craving. He dared not yet defy Dean’s 
power — for that he held such power over him 
he was well assured — neither would he yield 
to it. 

When he reached home Anne had not arrived 
and he was obliged to wait in the hall for her 
to come ; but the struggle within him deadened 
other sensations and other thought, and he sat 
down sullenly enough but quietly upon the land- 
ing to wait for her. He saw her enter ; saw 
that young Dean was with her ; felt a thrill of 
anger along his blood that his accuser should 
protect his daughter; and still that fine, silent, 
inward struggle kept him silent. 

All this passed flash-like through his memory 


Through the Snow. 235 

as Anne stood with her outstretched hand in 
the doorway calling him to enter. 

“ I stopped to get a few things for dinner, 
father,” she said sweetly. “ That hindered me. 
I am sorry that I kept you waiting.” 

She had never before kept him waiting ! He 
knew that, too, in this strange self-search. But 
he made her no reply. He arose slowly and 
indifferently, and with heavily drawn brows 
entered the room, worn and haggard in the light 
of the lamp. 

Anne noted this in her swift glance as he 
passed her, setting aside her hand, and she also 
saw that he was sober and her heart lifted light- 
ly in thankfulness. He had been under the in- 
fluence of liquor more or less every day for the 
last five years. Was that to be a red-letter day 
in her life ? 

The color remained in her face as she made 
the fire and set the kettle over that soon sang 
merrily, and broiled the bit of steak and mashed 
potatoes to a cream, and poured the rich hot 
milk over the oysters to make them plump and 
tender. She was unaccountably happy doing 
all these little domestic things, in spite of that 
subtle fear for Dick that had lain in her heart 
since she left him that afternoon. 


236 


Barclay s Daughter. 


And could she have known how the brave 
little lad was suffering would hei heart have 
been so light or the color so warm in her face ? 
And when, upon the following morning Barclay 
did not, as was his habit, dress, and eat his break- 
fast and go out, Anne’s heart began to beat 
more steadily. It must be true, she told her- 
self, that something had changed him ; could it 
be remorse for having struck Dick ? He had 
never before laid his hand upon the lad ; he had 
been harsh with her in his presence, but had 
never lifted his hand against Dick. 

It was late when Barclay dressed and came 
out, drawing a chair to the stove and crouching 
over it, watching the bright thread of fire 
through the opened door, his back turned upon 
his daughter, deigning her no word of recogni- 
tion or reply when she addressed him, save that 
he desired no breakfast. 

For that inner fight would neither conquer 
nor be conquered, and the man was sullen and 
angry under its goading influence. But toward 
the middle of the afternoon, as the storm abated 
and the wind lulled, though still that other 
storm raged in Barclay’s breast, he put on his 
outer coat and hat, muffling his throat well up in 
a woollen scarf, and went out, muttering some 


Through the Snow. 


2 37 


unintelligible reply to her query as to whether 
he would return before dark or not ; and slam- 
ming the door behind him as though he hoped 
to shut in those mad thoughts that would not 
down, he went away and was seen no more until 
darkness had long settled upon the earth. 

But as he came stumbling up the stairs and 
into the room, Anne shrank down in her chair, 
her hands crushed over her sewing, her heart for 
an instant ceasing its wild beating and then 
throbbed on heavily like lead in her breast. 

For her father was too drunk even to recog- 
nize her or his surroundings, but fell in a heap 
upon the floor just within the room. 

During all that night Nellie Dean watched 
near the doctor, resolutely maintaining her po- 
sition in an upright, hard chair that she might 
have no fear of sleeping when needed. 

Her brother laughed at her when he came 
up-stairs after prayers, to see that she was made 
comfortable for her unusual vigil, and discovered 
her manner of wooing wakefulness ; and there 
was a gleam of intense appreciation of the situ- 
ation even in the physician’s eyes when Jim 
confided this state of things to him ; but the 
mother defended the pretty girl-woman anxious 
to be true to her duty. 


2 38 


Barclay s Daughter. 


“ I am certain that I should go straight to 
sleep,” said Miss Nellie decisively in answer to 
her brother’s laughter, “ if I should lie down on 
the couch or even sit in a cushioned chair; and 
I just simply mustn’t go to sleep, Mr. Bear!” 

“ I trust that there will be no necessity for 
me to call you, Miss Dean,” said Dr. Benton 
gravely, in spite of those mischievous eyes, 
when Dean summoned him to the door to learn 
of his sister’s absurdity. 

“And so do I,” replied Miss Nellie, her 
bright eyes growing very wistful and pleading 
as though she would not have him laugh at her 
wish to be true to her trust ; “ but suppose that 
Dick should be worse or should ask for me in 
the night and I should not wake, how badly I 
should feel, Dr. Benton ! ” 

“Yes,” said Dr. Benton quietly, the laughter 
gone from his eyes, superseded by another light 
that she could not meet so carelessly ; “ you 
are right, Miss Dean. Our little lad is very 
sick and may need the care of us both before 
morning. We hope not, but only a Higher 
Power knows ! ” 

N 

And with this authoritative defender on her 
side, even Miss Nellie’s tormenting brother did 
not attempt further to tease her that night, and 


Through the Snow. 


239 


for that Miss Nellie placed Dr. Benton high in 
her thoughts, assuring herself that she must be 
truly almost a woman to be so trusted by such 
a man, and not merely a thoughtless girl as her 
brother averred. 

So she settled herself in the straight-backed, 
uncushioned chair beside the lamp-stand, with a 
book to read, and plenty of thoughts pleasant 
and otherwise, to keep her awake after her 
mother retired to her own room further down 
the hall as the hour of midnight struck ; move- 
ments and mutterings from the sick-room, 
but no call as yet for the pretty volunteer 
nurse. 

And Jim Dean, keeping vigil in the parlor 
beside the fire until the small hours of morning, 
even until dawn, went over and over the 
events of the day, the storm rioting without, 
seeming to challenge him in derision to forget, 
if he could, the pretty vision of bright eyes and 
red cheeks and lips revealed to him under the 
lamp at the street corner that night, or forget 
the new life in the face turned to him from the 
staircase as last he saw it. He wondered, too, 
what had been the effect of his threat against 
Barclay. He believed that the man was too 
much of a coward not to heed his words, but 


240 Barclay s Daughter. 

he was still perhaps bully enough to go even 
beyond his usual bounds — for a time. 

He had seen a good deal of Barclay during 
his stay behind the bar at Millard’s saloon, and 
he believed him to be almost beyond the hope 
of benefiting ; it was the knowledge of this 
man’s life, also, that helped to strengthen the 
pleading of his mother and sister against his 
employment ; and the thought of Barclay’s 
daughter in her quiet nobility fighting against 
the harshness of her life that at last set Jim 
Dean’s face toward a higher and better light. 

He told Millard frankly his reasons for leav- 
ing his position before he went away, and 
wakened more than ever this man’s con- 
science regarding this honorable business of his. 
Whether or not his quiet words had at all af- 
fected Millard, however, he did not know, any 
more than he knew, sitting before the parlor 
fire, whether Barclay had heeded his words or 
had defied them. The scene in Barclay’s house 
upon the previous night also returned vividly 
to his mind, and sleep was far from his eyes, 
until dawn colored the east and the mighty 
tumult of nature grew less violent as the soft 
gray touched the heavens. 

All night Dr. Benton kept faithful watch 


Through the Snow. 


241 


over the little sufferer among the pillows, lifting 
the restless, fevered head upon his arm as 
tenderly as a mother might, to hold the 
glass of water to the parched lips, or turn and 
smooth the crushed pillows, or gently bathe the 
black mark on his shoulder, or prepare the pow- 
der that should lessen the sense of pain ; and 
sometimes he would murmur words of com- 
fort in his quiet, soothing voice; sometimes 
words with higher meaning that seemed, either 
the words or the voice, to hush the muttered 
delirium. 

And Nellie Dean had sat in the hard, 
uncushioned chair resolutely reading from the 
book she held, or busy with her thoughts, but 
with new and hitherto unknown determination, 
banishing sleep lest Dick should call her and 
she should not hear. 

The sensation was quite new to her, light- 
hearted girl as she had always been, and it was 
very solemn to listen to and wait almost eagerly 
for those numerous small sounds of the night 
that the day’s noise and bustle utterly drown ; 
to feel that one sits alone at midnight waiting 
a call from a sick-room ; to know that the ex- 
tremity of illness is such that only God can tell 
what the end will be ! 


242 Barclay s Daughter. 

That one night in Nellie Dean’s life was one 
that she never forgot, every hour of which 
added to her character. She knew, and all the 
anxious watchers in the house knew, that the 
blow was from the heavy hand of Barclay 
under the influence of liquor; that to a boy 
who was strong and well, the blow, although 
heavy, would have done no more than bruise 
him and lame the arm for a while ; to Dick in 
his weakness and sensitiveness the blow was 
such as might end in death ! For to this boy 
with his pain-strung nerves and fine sensibilities 
the shock upon his nervous system exceeded 
the physical pain arising from added physical 
disorder. 

And so, with anxious watch by all in the 
house, fearful what each hour might bring, the 
mad tempest still raging, the night gave way to 
gray dawn, and dawn to day, and death had 
not come ; only intense suffering and anxious 
hearts. 

And when day had come and life still throb- 
bed through Dick’s fevered veins, sleep coming 
to him as dawn approached, the physician went 
down to meet the family and tell them his opin- 
ion. Undoubtedly, now sleep had come, he 
said, the boy would sleep for hours ; if he grew 


Through the Snow. 243 

restless or threatened to relapse into delirium, 
such and such medicine should be administered ; 
quietness throughout the house must be main- 
tained, and continual watch kept over the pa- 
tient. 

“ He is in a very critical condition,” he an- 
swered to Mrs. Dean’s anxious query ; “ but I 
hope to pull him through with the aid of you 
ladies. I shall look in at noon and come back 
after office hours this evening for the night, un- 
less he is improved. I trust that he may be.” 

This wish was echoed in the hearts of all, for 
Dick had won a warm hold upon their hearts, 
perhaps in each thought strengthened by a prayer 
for the wise ending that only heaven knew ! 

And it was decided that Anne should not be 
told unless there were imminent danger or Dick 
fretted for her. But on his way down-town 
that morning Jim Dean left the car and waited 
long after the usual hour for Barclay’s start out 
for the day, in spite of the blustering storm that 
had not entirely died ; but no Barclay came ; 
and when he had grown weary and the hour 
was late for his attendance at the store, he went 
away considerably puzzled to know whether or 
not Barclay had turned bully or had acted udoii 
his advice. 


244 Barclay s Daughter . 

“ I won’t tell him, either, of the danger to 
Dick’s life unless 1 have to manage him,” he 
said to himself, on his way down-town. “ But 
I’ll keep it over his head to use if necessary. 
It may prove a wholesome lesson yet !” 


CHAPTER XVI. 


IN THE BALANCE. 

44 Beware of desperate steps. The darkest day, 

Live till to-morrow, will have passed away.” 

— Cow per. 

When Dr. Benton had gone away after the 
night of fever and delirium, Dick slept quietly 
for a couple of hours ; then he grew restless, 
turned his head to and fro uneasily upon the 
pillows, and muttered incoherently now and 
then as though he were sadly troubled ; and by 
the time the physician called at noon he found 
the patient decidedly worse. 

He frowned as he watched the uneasy head, 
sitting beside the bed, his fingers lightly touch- 
ing the hot, rapid pulse. He had hoped and 
believed from the boy’s quiet sleep when he left 
that morning to find him improved upon this 
noon call. He was disappointed when he found 
him worse, and had grave apprehensions of 
being, after all, unable to bring him through 
the fever. 

With a professional man’s admiration of his 

(245) 


246 


Barclay s Daughter. 


profession, he had hoped that he might by care- 
ful means improve the boy’s condition physi- 
cally, and grant him a happy life ; for no life can 
be thoroughly complete or come to full fruition 
without health. Now, watching the boy, listen- 
ing to his murmuring, comprehending with fine 
sense that tell-tale message of the blood along 
the pulse, he believed that all his plans, and the 
plans of these people for the lad, would amount 
to nothing but a promising life ended and a son 
swiftly following his mother into the Great 
Silence. 

Mrs. Dean was in the room, Miss Nellie 
having been sent to lie down and rest; 
and with her knowledge of sickness and the 
signs in a physician’s face, she read the truth 
of his fear in the fine, kind face so intently 
turned to the fever-flushed face among the pil- 
lows. Her face betrayed her knowledge of his 
fear as Dr. Benton lifted his eyes to hers, closing 
his watch and replacing it in his pocket as he 
gently laid the thin wrist back upon the 
coverlet. 

“ Is it so bad as that, doctor ?” she asked, very 
softly, the delicate shadow upon her face, her 
calm blue eyes stirred with a touch of tears. 

‘ Is there nothing we can do to assist you in 


In the Balance. 


247 


bringing him back to us? Would it be well to 
have a regular nurse, rather than such willing 
but untrained help as we can give ? We must 
do all that we can to restore the little fellow.” 

“ It would be well to have a trained nurse, 
certainly,” he replied slowly, the frown of deep 
thought still upon his brows. “ I can send you 
one if you desire it, Mrs. Dean — a strong, quiet, 
capable young person, upon whom you may 
rely. It has come to such a pass with Dick 
that twelve hours must decide which way the 
balance will dip. Had he ordinary strength to 
fall back upon I should be more confident, but 
he has so little strength that the excitement of 
his mother’s death, besides what occurred the 
other evening to bring on the fever, that his 
nervous system is unstrung. We may bring 
him through, however ; we must certainly do 
what we can, and after all he may have more 
rallying power than I know. We must hope for 
the best, Mrs. Dean, and trust in God.” 

He did not speak in a vain boast as some 
men might, using religion as a cloak for lack of 
knowledge or skill ; he spoke quietly and rever- 
ently, and Mrs. Dean bowed her head in ac- 
quiescence, her silent prayer for the small lad 
before them mingled with the wish that some 


248 


Barclay s Daughter. 


day her son, her only boy, would prove so un- 
mistakably as this man did what help and hope 
came to him at thought of the Higher Power ! 

“I would remain herewith him if I could,” 
added Dr. Benton, presently breaking the silence 
that he had allowed to fall between them ; “ but 
that is impossible, Mrs. Dean. I will change 
Dick’s medicine, and send a nurse this afternoon. 
It is not right that you or your daughter should 
be broken of your rest again as you were last 
night. I trust that Miss Dean feels no bad 
effects from it ? ” 

He had risen, having done all that he could 
for Dick in the way of ascertaining his condi- 
tion and changing his medicine to meet the 
more urgent need, and was drawing on his 
gloves, still anxiously watching the boy among 
the pillows of the bed as he kept up that 
constant murmur and uneasy motion of his 
head. 

Mrs. Dean also arose, after touching a bell 
cord at her side. 

“ Nellie is well,” she replied, half smiling at 
the mere mention of the happy girl. “ She is 
almost always well, doctor. We keep her free 
from care and the knowledge of pain as much 
as we can, and insist upon plenty of exercise, 


In the Balance. 


249 

food, and sleep. One night’s broken rest could 
not harm her perfect constitution.” 

The physician smiled. That mischievous 
gleam again awoke in his eyes, remembering 
the girl’s unique design for wakefulness upon the 
previous night and her utter disregard of their 
amusement at her expense. 

“ Those are the three great factors of a free, 
full life, Mrs. Dean,” he said. “ I would give a 
great deal could some one tell me as much in 
regard to Dick. I should then have so much 
more hope of him.” 

As at that moment the neat servant appeared 
at the door in answer to Mrs. Dean’s ring, the 
doctor buttoned his gloves in silence. 

Mrs. Dean turned to the servant. 

“Tell Miss Nellie that Dr. Benton is going, 
Elida,” she said. And as the servant obediently 
disappeared she added : “ My daughter wishes 
to speak with you before you leave, doctor. 
Just a word or two for her comfort, I think, if 
you can spare the time.” 

But although he murmured that it would give 
him great pleasure to grant her request, his face 
was as quiet and unmoved as usual ; and as he 
left the room, glancing back at the flushed boy 
face, Mrs. Dean, alone with the sick lad, stood 


250 


Barclay s Daughter. 


for a moment beside the bed, her hands clasped 
as though she prayed silently for him and for the 
peace of God to rest upon all troubled hearts. 

And as the young physician ran lightly'', al- 
most noiselessly, down the softly-carpeted stairs, 
Miss Nellie parted the portierres at the parlor 
doorway and stood so framed, a charming pic- 
ture of shadowed brightness, waiting for him to 
come. 

He saw her with those keen eyes of his even 
before he betrayed that he knew of her presence. 
She was not one to easily pass unnoticed. 

She came forward as he reached the lower 
hall, some of the pretty color gone from her 
cheeks though her eyes were still bright and 
brave, looking up to him. In some indefinable 
manner a shadow had fallen upon the young 
face that made it still more womanly and at- 
tractive. 

“ Doctor,” she said, just the smallest trace of 
shy hesitation in her voice and manner, “ how 
is Dick ? He slept some time this morning, 
but it seems to me that he has grown worse 
since he half waked. The poor little brave 
fellow ! He is so brave, doctor ! ” 

A flashing smile crossed her face and leaped in 
her eyes as she faced him, waiting for his answer. 


In the Balance. 


2 5i 


When he had answered her as best he could, 
not knowing himself what the issue would be, 
and the gravity falling over the piquant face 
wakened regret in his heart that such glad young 
natures must wake to sorrow, she seemed to 
lose all her hesitation and indecision. 

“ Dr. Benton,” she said steadily, a little, queer 
line of sternness upon her lips, “ if anything 
should happen that Dick should not recover, it 
will be from the effect of the blow he received 
the other night ?” 

He looked at her in some surprise, as he an- 
swered : 

“ Yes, Miss Dean.” 

“ And the fever was caused by this blow, and 
he would not have had it but for that, Dr. 
Benton ? ” 

Again he replied in the affirmative, only mod- 
erating his answer to the knowledge of the 
fever ; he could not, of course, positively assert 
that the boy would not have had a fever from 
the excitement through which he had recently 
passed, but in all probability he would not. 

“ Then,” he realized now her object in asking 
so eagerly her questions, “ if anything does hap- 
pen that Dick does not recover, can they hold 
responsible the person who struck him ?” 


252 Barclay s Daughter. 

Very grave and gentle his voice was now, 
answering her, his hand for one moment touch- 
ing her arm. 

Undoubtedly they can — and will, Miss 
Dean,” he replied. 

She caught her breath, and her eyes widened 
with fear. She had not dared give speech to 
this thought before, fearing the reply. She did 
not faint, she did not cry out, but she lifted her 
face in his sight, and it was a pallid face, as she 
said hoarsely but steadily : 

“ Then, please God, Anne does not hear of it 
unless she must ! I think that the knowledge 
would kill her ! ” 

“ We will hope for the best,” he said gently, 
wishing that it were in his power to comfort 
her. “ More remarkable recoveries than this 
have been effected, Miss Dean ; and in any case, 
from what I know of Miss Barclay there is 
small fear for her even should the worst come 
to pass. She has wonderful self-command.” 

Still, the balance hung pretty even for the 
next twelve hours in Dick Chester’s life. A 
trained nurse was sent for that afternoon ac- 
cording to Dr. Benton’s promise, and all that 
was possible was done for the little sufferer. 
The nurse was a quiet, pleasant-faced young 


In the Balance. 


2 53 


woman, and entered at once upon her duties as 
though she had passed all her life in that pretty 
little home and knew its ways completely ; and 
her perfect composure and thorough under- 
standing of her duties very soon told in the 
more comfortable position of the patient, the 
less frequent mutterings of delirium, and the 
orderliness of the room, although still the fever 
burned through the young blood. 

Miss Nellie liked her at once ; she was quick 
in her judgment of character, and the woman’s 
face pleased her greatly. 

“ She’ll cure Dick if any one can,” she said 
enthusiastically to her mother. “ I never saw 
any one like her, mamma. She knows just 
every single thing to do, and the little fellow is 
better already — I know he is better, mamma 
Dean ! ” 

“ I hope that he is, dear,” said Mrs. Dean, 
herself not so assured, remembering the phy- 
sician’s troubled face. “But you must give 
some credit to the doctor’s care and attention, 
Nellie. He certainly could have done no more 
had Dick been of his own kindred.” 

Miss Nellie nodded obediently. 

“ Of course. But I am sure that the nurse 
will help him, mamma. I knew nothing about 


254 


Barclay s Daughter. 


nursing, and you could not be with him all the 
time as one should be to take the proper care.” 

By and by she added slowly, her thoughts 
evidently with the subject of her words : 

“ All that I hope now is that Anne will not 
come here until the best or worst is known. 
In Dick’s present undecided state — and she 
could not look at him without knowing that it 
is serious — I believe it would nearly drive her 
mad to see him and know the truth of what 
must come to her father should the boy die ! It 
s terrible anyway, mamma, but Anne is so 
brave and has tried so hard and faithfully to 
defend and encourage him.” 

“ It is not probable that she will come to- 
day,” said Mrs. Dean comfortingly ; “ it is too 
bitter a day for any one to venture out who 
need not. Anne does not imagine that Dick is 
so ill, and she has too much common sense to 
come out in this storm when, so far as she knows, 
another day would do as well.” 

“Yes,” assented Nellie thoughtfully; “but I 
hope that it will stay stormy until we know 
positively about Dick. Twelve hours, Dr. Ben- 
ton said. That will be some time to-morrow. 
I wish that to-morrow would come!” 

It was a childish, impulsive wish natural to 


In the Balance. 


2 55 

the girl, but Mrs. Dean silenced her with un- 
usual sternness. 

“To-morrow comes swiftly enough, Nellie,” 
she said. They were sewing in Mrs. Dean’s 
room and Nellie bent her head still lower over 
her needle. “Each added day brings added joy 
or pain to some one ; let the days come as the 
Lord wills, my dear.” 

“ I was thinking of Anne, mamma,” said 
Nellie softly, with shyly lifted eyes. “ I wished 
for Anne.” 

“ And perhaps to Anne it might bring only 
added sorrow ; let us wait, dear ! ” was the gentle 
remonstrance. 

But the hours went very slowly, and would 
Anne have believed at that moment that there 
could be added sorrow or humiliation for her? 
Had she not been light-hearted — strangely light- 
hearted since the previous night, with her father 
home, sober? Had she not been buoyed up 
all day with the hope, growing momentarily 
stronger, that there might be a pleasant home 
and happy hours for them yet, as there were for 
others ? 

She had even been foolishly humming a song 
over her sewing, looking out now and then at 
the falling snow and the busy sweepers clearing 


256 Barclay's Daughter. 

the streets as fast as the white covering fell. 
And here it had ended in — this ! A man, lost 
to all manliness, all pride, all self-respect, in the 
fumes of liquor lying before her — her father — 
in a heap upon the floor ! 

Every day for five years he had come home 
more or less under the influence of liquor, then 
had come yesterday with not a drop passing his 
lips, and then fell this worst evil of all ! 

Her sewing fell from her hands to her lap 
and so shifted by little and little to the floor 
unnoticed by her. Her eyes widened, her lips 
quivered for an instant ; then the old pallor and 
calm returned. She rose and went toward him. 

He was too intoxicated to see or hear what 
was passing around him, and did not know that 
his daughter stood for a long time with clasped 
hands and calm, pale face, looking down 
upon him. Then she stooped and attempted 
to lift him, to get him upon his bed in the inner 
room, but he was too heavy for her slim arms 
and slender strength ; and bringing out a pillow 
she laid it as comfortably as she could beneath 
his head, upon which he muttered a half audible 
malediction upon her and turned his head away. 
His hat had fallen off and she hung it upon its 
nail on the wall. 


In the Balance. 


25 7 


“May the Lord be merciful !” she murmured 
half brokenly, as she shaded his eyes from the 
light and resumed her sewing. She could touch 
nothing upon the neatly set table. Under the 
swift revulsion of feeling the sight of food sick- 
ened her. She had hoped so much, foolishly 
perhaps, but with youth’s ever ready faith in 
future good ; and only this had come ! 

All night long she sat in her little sewing- 
chair beside the sewing-table busily at work, 
for she could find no rest should she go to bed, 
and she must keep watch that no harm came to 
either during her father’s drunken sleep. He 
might rouse at any moment, and after such a 
debauch his temper would be terrible. She 
trembled, thinking of it, and yet she was brave. 

But would she have been so brave or have 
had even her little peace of mind had she known 
of that other vigil over the lad who was possi- 
bly hurt to death in the drunken rage of the 
man before her ? The hours of the night, go- 
ing so swiftly and yet to anxious hearts lagging 
upon their way, went by, one by one, as steadily 
and surely as though two watchers kept no 
guard over two vastly different lives! One, 
that might possibly — would probably, the phy- 
sician said — end in death ; one, lost to the mo- 


258 Barclay s Daughter. 

ment’s life by the willful use of death’s most 
subtle weapon ! Two, both women, tireless 
in their vigilance and yet so different ! 

More than once the quiet nurse in the hap- 
pier home would have had them send for any 
friend whom the little lad might wish to see, 
and once Jim Dean even had his overcoat on 
ready to go out for Anne ; but Nellie pleaded 
so earnestly for them to wait until they knew 
past any doubting that there was no hope, urg- 
ing upon her mother and brother the fact that 
the truth would surely kill Anne, no matter 
how brave she was ; and Nellie’s eyes, with 
tears brimming upon the lashes, were very soft 
and wistful, and Nellie’s face in its loving 
thought of Anne was so very eloquent that 
Jim did not go, but waited as she wished until 
there could be no longer any hope ! 

So the hours went by and the lad’s lips grew 
too weak for murmuring, and the restless head 
was restless no longer ; and as dawn broke pal- 
lidly in the far east and night darkness was scat- 
tered, more quiet rest came to the little sufferer, 
and there might be hope, the nurse said softly ; 
but who could tell positively until the hours 
were gone ? 

But to Anne at her window, as the outer 


In the Balance. 


259 


light deepened and the lamp light waned, it 
seemed that there was no more hope in all the 
world and no one to be relied upon save 
God! 

And the next morning Dr. Benton rang Mrs. 
Dean’s bell. 

“He is asleep,” Mrs. Dean told him, softly 
walking with him along the hall to the sick- 
room. “ He has been quietly sleeping for some 
time, doctor — very quietly. Miss Eastman 
thinks that there may be hope. The fever does 
not go down, but there may be hope.” 

Dr. Benton bowed gravely. He listened with 
perfect courtesy to her explanation, but gave no 
opinion in return. 

“ I made my call earlier than yesterday’s,” he 
said, his hand upon. the door-knob, turning to 
speak to her, “ because the critical time will 
soon have passed, Mrs. Dean. We must be pa- 
tient and hope.” 

As he entered the sick-room Mrs. Dean 
turned to the adjoining room, where Nellie 
awaited her. She and Nellie had been there all 
through the night and morning, waiting for 
what would come, fearing for Anne. Nellie 
was lying on the couch ; the straight-backed, 
uncomfortable chair had disappeared ; a bamboo 


26 o 


Barclay s Daughter. 


chair with soft cushions was beside the couch. 
Mrs. Dean seated herself in that. 

“What did he say, mamma?” asked Nellie 
eagerly. Her color had grown much fainter 
during the last days of watching, and fear for 
Anne, but her bright eyes were too full of life to 
easily lose their lustre. 

“ He told us to hope,” replied Mrs. Dean 
gently. “ That is all that we can do now until 
the crisis is past. He will remain until then. 
He is wonderfully kind to our little orphan, 
Nellie ! ” 

Nellie nestled her pretty head more comfort- 
ably among the sofa pillows, her eyes hidden 
from her mother’s sight. 

“ He ought to be,” she said sturdily. “ He 
would be horrid if he were not, mamma !” 

“Yes,” said Mrs. Dean thoughtfully, “but 
we all do not so faithfully do as we ought, my 
dear. Dr. Benton is a good man.” 

“ Then we ought to be ashamed of our- 
selves!” retorted Miss Nellie with supreme 
conviction, ignoring the latter part of her moth- 
er’s speech. “ I don’t want to be horrid, mamma 
Dean ! ” 

Mrs. Dean made no reply and no further re- 
mark, too anxious for the welfare of the sick 


In the Balance. 


261 


boy in the next room, whose life hung as in a 
balance almost even, waiting for the hours 
to lift or let fall. And the strange, strained, 
solemn silence once more fell upon the house in 
the presence of the Eternal Ocean drifting so 
near. How would it end ? For life, for death ? 
Now the one, now the other, no one knowing 
which should prevail. 

The young physician, sitting beside the bed, 
Iiis fingers lightly touching the tell-tale pulse in 
the thin wrist lying upon the counterpane, his 
face concentrated in intense watching for the 
faintest change, uttering no word to the quiet 
nurse standing upon the other side slowly mov- 
ing a fan to and fro to cool the patient’s flushed 
face, hoping and fearing alternately as a flicker of 
consciousness crossed the boy’s face or a sigh 
stirred the parched lips. 

He knew no more than they of the certain 
ending to this scene, that might also mean life 
or death to the man whose hand fell so heavily 
upon the helpless lad ; but that thin, hot, wiry 
pulse continued to let the blood course past 
under the firm, light fingers, and tell its tale so 
plainly read by the careful watcher — for life — 
for death — the balance scarcely swaying for the 
one or the other. 


262 


Barclay s Daughter. 

“ Bring me a bowl of water and a sponge, 
please,” he said presently to the nurse, yet not 
removing his eyes from the face upon the pil- 
lows. “ His lips are very parched.” 

The nurse quietly obeyed. She had stood 
beside death-beds before ; this thoughtful moist- 
ening of the lips was one of those last acts pos- 
sible to the living. Was the end approaching ? 

But she asked no questions ; she would be 
told all that was necessary for her to know at 
present ; the end she would know for herself. 
So she moved the fan slowly and evenly, watch- 
ing the physician tenderly touching the dry, 
parted lips with the soft, cool, moistened sponge, 
wondering how it came about that he should be 
so infinitely gentle, yet asking no questions — 
waiting to know. 

Thirty minutes went by, counted off by the 
rapid pulse-beats and the ticking of the watch 
lying open on the stand beside him. Thirty 
minutes, and just an almost imperceptible 
change in the flushed face that the physician’s 
keen eyes caught. The faintest variation of 
color, the merest tinge in the lips, the scarcely- 
seen lifting of the eyelids. That was all, save 
the same faint change in the blood pulsing un- 
der the doctor’s fingers ; and the nurse saw 


In the Balance. 


263 


nothing that was different from what had been 
thirty minutes before, for even the physician’s 
face was changeless for the time. 

Forty minutes ; fifty. Very close now upon 
the time that must turn the balance, that might 
turn it by a hair’s weight. Very close. 

Mrs. Dean, in the adjoining room, tried to be 
patient, tried to look as though it were well ; 
told herself that the Lord gave and the Lord 
takes away, and that His name is still blessed; 
but do as she would, her eyes would turn toward 
the clock upon the mantel, watching the minute- 
hand clicking around — half after ; quarter of ; 
ten minutes — five ! She could not rest. 

While Miss Nellie, unable to find any com- 
fortable or restful position for her head among 
the cushions, at last arose and softly paced the 
floor, or paused to part the window-curtains to 
see if Jim were coming — for Jim would be at 
home at noon to learn the tidings — or pause 
beside her mother’s chair as though for comfort. 
Finally, as the minutes drew nearer the fatal 
hour, she crossed the room swiftly and covered 
the face of the clock with both her hands, whis- 
pering excitedly : 

“ Oh, time ! stand still now, if, going, you 
bring evil to Anne ! ” 


264 Barclay's Daughter. 

But the time for such visible miracles is past. 
Though the clock’s face was covered by her 
foolish, loving hands, time went on just the same 
— second by second — ticking, ticking, ticking! 

“ My dear,” said Mrs. Dean very softly, her 
eyes upon her daughter, her own heart moved 
as the time lessened for doubt. “ If evil should 
come to Anne, be certain the Lord will give her 
the strength to bear it. Her nature is refined 
already through great sorrow.” 

“ But it is cruel — cruel,” cried Nellie swiftly 
but softly, “ that Anne must suffer for the sin of 
another ! She has done no harm ! ” 

“We all suffer through our affections,” said 
Mrs. Dean gently, and still Nellie covered the 
face of the clock, “ according to the strength of 
our affections, my dear.” 

“ And I suffer for Anne ! ” cried Nellie passion- 
ately. “ If Dick should die ” 

“ The Lord gives and the Lord takes away and 
still His name is blessed.” 

The door opened very softly and the nurse 
entered ; there was perfect peace upon her face, 
but Nellie, with youth’s ardent hopes, read what 
it foretold. 

“The crisis is past ; he will recover,” she said. 


CHAPTER XVII. 


CHANGES. 

"The sad vicissitude of things .” — Laurence Sterne. 

When Jim Dean reached home at noon he 
found that there was some new stir about the 
house, slight, but perceptible. The door-bell 
was still muffled ; footsteps were light about the 
rooms ; voices low and undertoned ; still in- 
stinctively he knew that the crisis was past, 
whether well or ill, as he mounted the steps, 
taking out his latch-key the sooner to enter 
and learn the truth. There was a subtle sugges- 
tion of life about the place that made him hope- 
ful that death had not come. He knew of the 
consequences to Barclay should death be the 
outcome of that cruel blow ; he had known it 
all along, but could not bring himself to speak 
of it any more than could Nellie. The plea of 
drunkenness could not save the man ; it was 
scarcely probable that anything could save him 
from answering the charge. 

Upon Anne’s account they had made no charge 

(265) 


266 


Barclay s Daughter. 


and there had been no arrest, for they knew 
how cruel would be her humiliation, and young 
Dean was assured that he could find the man 
at any time, if it were necessary. He pledged 
himself to that, and even Dr. Benton acceding — 
all of them because of Anne, not from sympathy 
for the man — what could- be argued against it ? 

Anne had been in Jim Dean’s thoughts con- 
tinually that morning, crowding out even his 
thought of Dick save as his life or death affected 
her happiness. She had been in his thoughts a 
good deal lately, but this was different. This 
was one strong, supreme wish for her good and 
that it might be in his power to shield her from 
further cruelty and sorrow. Up to that time it 
had been a vague thought, a half formed hope ; 
that morning it woke to powerful, full life ; and 
in spite of the difference in their lives, the fine 
thread of social distinction that placed her, per- 
haps, a grade lower than he, he knew that Anne 
Barclay held his happiness in her gentle hold, so 
far as one human being should be allowed to 
make or mar another life. 

His hand slightly trembled as he fitted the 
key in the lock and opened the door. No mat- 
ter what should be the end of Dick’s illness, no 
matter what should come to Barclay because of 


267 


Changes. 

his drunken cruelty, his daughter should be re- 
spected and honored — and loved — by him ! He 
hoped that only good would come to all, but he 
knew the boy’s critical condition and dared 
scarcely think of what might have come during 
his absence that morning, as he entered the 
house. 

Nellie had been watching for him from the par- 
lor window. She came down at once after the 
good news was made known, to repeat it to 
him as soon as he should enter, knowing that 
his anxiety equalled her own for Anne. For a 
moment, to be sure, after the overstrained, 
nervous waiting to learn the truth, and the truth 
was told, Miss Nellie came very near a fit of 
hysteria. Her bright eyes sparkled and her 
cheeks glowed with the first rush of delight 
that Dick would live and Anne have no heavier 
burden to bear. Her lips parted, but she could 
not speak ; she clasped her hands and endeav- 
ored to regain her composure, but she had been 
under such a mental strain as never before had 
she been called upon to endure, and with 
her natural impulsiveness she could not be quiet 
and still her mad heart as her mother did. 

With an eloquent gesture she turned once 
more to the clock upon the mantel, and reach- 


268 


Barclay's Daughter. 


ing up, standing on tiptoe to increase her height, 
she laid both hands tenderly upon it and pressed 
her lips excitedly upon the immovable, cold 
face ! 

“ You have saved Anne — you have saved 
Anne ! ” she whispered foolishly. “ You 
blessed, blessed clock ! I shall love you always 
after this ! ” 

“ Nellie,” said her mother, gently remonstrat- 
ing, “ do you forget to whom your thanks are 
due ? Did the clock save the little fellow’s 
life?” 

Nellie’s smile was dazzling as she turned to 
her mother. 

“ I couldn’t forget,” she said sweetly. “ God 
has been too good to us, mamma ; but the clock 
was so like one of us, waiting to know what 
would come with the hour, and it looked as 
though it were glad, too, that I couldn’t help 
telling it that I was glad. We needn’t fear for 
Anne now ; she is safe ! I shall go down and 
wait for Jim and tell him. He is as anxious as 
we.” 

She stooped, in passing her mother’s chair, to 
touch her cheek with her lips, whispering again 
how good it was; and Mrs. Dean detained 
her for a moment as she would have passed. 


Changes. 


269 


“My dear,” she said gravely, “you must not 
also forget that, under God, vve owe Dick’s re- 
covery to Dr. Benton. He has been very faith- 
ful, utterly self-forgetful in his endeavor to 
save him. You must thank him, Nellie, before 
he goes away. I feared that you might not re- 
member this in your excitement.” 

Nellie nodded brightly, withdrawing her hand 
from her mother’s detaining hold. 

“Of course, I’ll not forget,” she said. “Do 
you think that I could, when it means so much 
to Anne ? ” 

But Mrs. Dean made no reply save a smile 
for this impulsive daughter; neither of them 
thinking how strange it was that Anne had so 
come into their lives. 

And so, as Jim closed the outer door, enter- 
ing the hall, Miss Nellie appeared in the door- 
way leading to the parlor; her face told the 
story before her lips could utter a word. 

“ I am so very, very glad !” said Nellie softly. 

“ And I,” said her brother, his arm across her 
shoulder, as they entered the parlor together. 

“For Anne!” added Miss Nellie softer 
still. 

“ For Anne, of course ! ” assented her brother, 
qualifying his words to her knowledge of his 


270 Barclay s Daughter. 

heart. “ Dr. Benton is a wonderful fellow, 
Nell!” 

“ Yes,” said Miss Nellie, her assent also some- 
what measured, remembering that she must 
thank the physician before he left the house, as 
her mother desired. But it was not such an 
easy thing to do, after all. She knew that the 
color was exceedingly warm in her cheeks and 
that her lips were rebellious in spite of her firm 
resolution to be perfectly at ease ; she knew 
that her hand was not quite steady as she held 
it out to him as he crossed from the stairs to 
the door. But it never entered her head what 
a charming picture she made, coming to him from 
the parlor in this hesitating manner to render 
him her thanks ! 

“ If it were not for you,” she said softly, lifting 
for an instant the long lashes from her down- 
cast eyes, feeling somewhat reassured by the 
firm clasp of the slim, strong fingers holding 
hers. “ If it were not for you, Dr. Benton, we 
should not have such lightened hearts, knowing 
that the dear lad will recover ! I wish that I 
could say that I had saved a life.” 

He smiled upon her. “ You must not render 
thanks to me,” he said gently ; “ I have done 
only what any physician should have done ; but 


Changes. 271 

even with our knowledge, life and death do not 
lie with us !” 

She understood. She had no fear of him now. 
And looking up to him again, she smiled very 
brightly, but with pretty confidence. 

And all this time Anne had her share of sor- 
row and humiliation, of which they did not 
know. All night, as they watched by Dick, 
she watched by her father with her hands and 
thoughts continually busy, though many times 
fatigue would overtake her and snatch her 
apart from care and watching with an instant’s 
sleep. She never more than lost herself before 
she was again awake, guiding the needle through 
her sewing under the faint, low light of the 
lamp. The sound of her father’s heavy slumber 
kept constantly before her the thought of him 
and his sad life, and her shattered hope for his 
improvement, and for them some day a happy 
home like others, humbler than Miss Nellie’s 
perhaps, but happy. 

Now and then her father would move or 
mutter some indistinguishable words, and she 
would rise and go to him to be assured that 
there was nothing she could do to make him 
more comfortable or less degraded. If she 
could have carried him to his bed, she would 


272 


Barclay s Daughter. 


have done so, but she could not ; to see him 
lying there, almost at her feet, upon the floor, 
in that state of beastly intoxication, was more and 
more bitter to her as the night advanced. Her 
hope of better things was gone ; also her wish 
to sometime prove that poverty is no crime, 
and that even men so low as her father could, 
with encouragement and determination, rise 
above themselves and be worthy of respect and 
love. But as dawn broadened into day and the 
streets began to fill with life, her father awoke, 
sat up and stared about him, at first uncompre- 
hending ; and, seeing her, muttered an impre- 
cation upon her and gathered himself upon his 
feet. She laid aside her sewing and would have 
gone to him, but he waved her aside, and catch- 
ing down his hat from its nail, passed unsteadily 
out the door and did not again appear until late 
that night. 

He was sullen and ill-tempered when he went 
out so abruptly, leaving his daughter gazing for 
some time at the door that had shut behind 
him, her hands idle among her sewing, as though 
she would, if she could, keep him there with her 
in their home where no harm could come to him. 

Things were bad enough, she thought sadly, 
listening to the sound of his unsteady steps 


Changes. 


273 

upon the stairs ; truly bad enough ; was he 
going out to make them still worse ? He had 
done it so many times that she was growing to 
expect that nothing else could come to him or 
her so long as liquor held him bound, body and 
soul ! 

Then she thought of Dick, wondering if he 
were as well as they had told her, and as he 
assured her himself that he was ; deciding to 
go to see him as soon as she could ; not that day, 
for fear her father might need her at home, but 
very soon. 

She thought of Nellie Dean and her mother 
and brother. What would they say could 
they have looked into that room last night ? 
Would they despise her — and him — as she 
was almost despising herself in the added 
humiliation of hopes fallen dead ? 

Then her eyes grew tender again and color 
flushed her cheeks, remembering that he was 
her father and she must not judge him. She 
thought of Mrs. Millard in her handsome, lonely 
house, waiting for her daughter’s return ; Mrs. 
Millard, having sown the bitter seed, to reap 
what harvest ? Such as this? Was it a vision 
of Nellie Dean’s eyes, or only the effect of color 
from a stained glass in a high church window, 


274 Barclay s Daughter. 

resting on the bride’s pretty head as she knelt 
at the altar ? 

But sitting idly brooding was not Anne Bar- 
clay’s way. She checked these unquiet thoughts 
and rose, laying aside her sewing, to open the 
windows for purifying the room, and made all 
things tidy ere she took up the day’s work. 
She drank a cup of coffee, feeling weak and 
faint from long fasting and lack of sleep, and 
continued work, but the thought of food sick- 
ened her. All these things were carefully at- 
tended to ; for literally in Anne Barclay’s eyes, 
next to godliness came cleanliness, nature’s 
pure air and light. 

These kept up bodily strength, and bodily 
strength increased mental strength to resist 
temptations. Anne was no believer in preach- 
ing without practice, or suggestions without 
visible helps to attainment. When all was done, 
the atmosphere of the room, also swept clean of 
all impure odors by the cold outer air, Anne 
reseated herself at her sewing. She had changed 
her dress for another of neat calico, that fitted 
her perfectly, and her freshly coiled hair and the 
glow of cold-water bathing upon her face made 
her an attractive picture of neatness, sitting at 
her window, sewing. 


Changes. 


275 


She did not know, or imagine, that young 
Dean saw her there ! If he mingled at all with 
her thoughts, it was certainly not as being near 
her in person. But he was there, across at the 
street corner, where he had long waited for her 
father to come out, determined not to give up 
this one plan for his reformation, though it took 
him weeks to succeed. He saw nothing of 
Barclay the previous day ; surely he would not 
remain at home, or away — whichever he was 
doing — for two consecutive days. He left home 
early that morning, wishing to prevent missing 
the man, and stood very patiently at the corner 
now, out of sight of the windows, now where 
he could see Anne as she approached them. 
Surely, Barclay would come presently ! 

But Barclay did not come presently. Barclay 
feared, through all his dulled faculties, that this 
young fellow would be watching for him, and 
he was in no condition or humor to meet him 
then. Not that he would wish him to think 
that he gave in so easily, but he wanted, first, 
to be certain that he would not give in ! 

He had fought a desperate fight ; he had 
struggled, now for and now against, the good 
angel wrestling with him. Never, since first he 
yielded to this reckless, careless life had he been 


276 


Barclay s Daughter. 


so beset. His conscience had grown daily and 
yearly less powerful to influence him, and even 
the sight of his pale, frail daughter, working 
tirelessly for him, did not at all affect him. It 
was her duty and privilege to work for him ; so 
his boon companions told him ; so he had come 
to believe. 

But Jim Dean, the former bartender, the 
man of all men less likely to impress him 
with a knowledge of his wasted life ; Jim Dean, 
of all men, had roused his conscience through 
fear, and impressed him through the fact of the 
power he possessed. Jim Dean had threatened 
him, and he feared Jim Dean ! 

Consequently, remembering the condition in 
which he returned home the previous night, 
maddened and driven reckless and determined 
to drown thought for the time, he feared that 
Jim Dean, as he had done before, would watch for 
and detect him and his wild debauch. Whether 
he should continue this difficult fight and con- 
quer and be — or attempt to be — once more a 
man, or whether again he should be driven, re- 
gardless of consequences and drunkenly daring, 
he did not know as he left his house. All that 
he knew, was that he could not meet his daugh- 
ter’s quiet, grieved face and watch her tireless 


Changes. 


2 77 


working ; all that he desired was to get away from 
her, to get one glass, at least, of the liquor that 
must cool the fiery effects of previous glasses, 
and let the day pass as it would ; all that he 
cared for in getting away from his daughter, 
was also to keep from the sight of Dean. 

He was still dazed from the effects of his 
heavy drinking, and was incapable of clear 
thought ; these desires, uppermost in his mind, 
were more like the instincts of an animal. 
Should he wait on the stairs until it was prob- 
able that the young man would be tired of his 
watching and go away? Would not the other 
tenants of the house have to pass him and, 
aware that he had been drinking, and perhaps 
having noticed the watching man somewhere 
near upon the street, might they not consider 
that he had been guilty of some misdemeanor, 
and tell of his hiding there ? 

Drunkenness alone was not looked upon 
with such disfavor there, for nearly every man 
in the house or neighborhood— and some of the 
women and children, too — followed the same 
course ; but anything that might lead to a sen- 
sation or momentary excitement, was quite an- 
other thing. He would not wait in the house 
at all ; he would go out of the back door and 


278 


Barclay s Daughter. 


so get into the alley at the rear and come out 
upon the street below, and directly beside a 
saloon. No fear of meeting Jim Dean that way. 

In case he should decide to follow Dean’s 
advice rather than accept the consequences, he 
still preferred to keep apart from him until he 
had tried his hand at the struggle. Even if he 
was a coward and had fallen so low, there was 
the touch of manhood in his veins that forced 
him to do this. 

He shrugged his shoulders, slouching with a 
half-drunken leer down the stairs and out 
through the back hall ; and although Jim Dean 
waited beyond the hour of his last vigil, he 
was disappointed and forced to go down town 
without learning the truth. 

Nellie Dean was to call upon Anne that 
afternoon, should Dick’s condition improve, 
going down town on some errand and stopping 
in as though merely doing it because she was 
passing, and was to assure Anne that Dick was 
doing well — if so, she might conscientiously — in 
order to prevent Anne going to the house until 
the lad was better. This, if the crisis were 

safely passed ; if not But none of them 

could endure to think of that and would make 
no plans for it. 


Changes. 


279 

And all day long John Barclay struggled with 
his unseen adversary, going out of the saloon 
after that one glass to cool the fever borne in 
his blood from yesterday’s excess, and walking 
restlessly about the streets in spite of the cold, 
driven by the force of long silent conscience, to 
fight. And still to no purpose, no purpose at 
all, until the day was almost spent and he had 
turned in his way home. Passing the familiar 
saloon near his house, he met one of his com- 
panions, who paused to urge him to go in for 
just one friendly glass ; but refusing, this man 
questioned, with a rough, half scornful laugh : 

“ So, it have turned you, Barclay ? Well ! 
well ! I never thought you were a white-livered 
fellow before ! Some folks are born fools, and 
some folks makes themselves such ; still, it do 
seem as though it’d ’a’ been pretty black for you 
if he’d ’a’ died, sartin ! I wouldn’t special care 
’bout havin’ my neck so near that onpleasant 
sensation o’ bein’ choked !” 

Barclay paused, facing him, stunned. He was 
too much astonished to comprehend, but there 
was no mistaking that there was some black 
charge against him, for the man’s face told that 
story clearly enough, in spite of its disfigure- 
ment from long evil. Then he laid one hand 


28 o 


Barclay's Daughter. 


heavily upon the man’s shoulder and demanded 
sharply what he meant by such a speech, and 
why he did not make his meaning clearer ? 

But the other merely shrugged his shoulders, 
stepping lazily back from his reach, retorting 
with slow delight at his new bit of gossip, that it 
wasn’t much, indeed ; that it would have been 
more, undoubtedly, if Dick Chester had died 
from that blow he gave him not many nights 
ago! 

And John Barclay’s dull comprehension could 
not fail to grasp the truth as he stood staring 
speechlessly after his companion ; he moved 
away. 


CHAPTER XVIII. 


THE BRIDE’S RETURN. 

“ The world is too much with us ; late and soon, 

Getting and spending, we lay waste our powers. ” 

— Wordsworth . 

When Minnie Millard laid aside her maiden 
name and girlhood’s freedom with the consent 
of her parents and the fond admiration of her 
friends, she expected that for her the future 
would be filled with happiness. She was not 
foolish enough or too blinded by her first hap- 
piness to believe that no pain or sorrow would 
come to her ; but no pain or sorrow could be 
very difficult to endure, she thought, fondly, 
with Tom Cartwright to share it with her. For 
Minnie loved the man she married ; there was 
little of the cool consideration upon her part 
when considering the matter, as there had been 
with him. 

She had known little of pain or sorrow, to be 
sure, during her young life, for her parents, in 
their love and care, kept from her what they 
could of the harsh side of life. Pain and sor- 

(281) 


1 


282 


Barclay s Daughter. 


row she knew only as they were shown in Anne 
Barclay’s life, and perhaps in the lives of beg- 
gars upon the streets. But she gave no thought 
to Anne Barclay during that happy time of her 
wedding ; and what had she to do with beggars, 
good or bad ? 

She expected all good things to crown her life. 
She was sorry to leave the old home, but when- 
ever one marries one must do that, she argued, 
and it was not as though she should never see 
it again. So she went away, quite happy, with 
her husband for only six short months, she said 
contentedly, not dreaming how long they might 
prove ! 

The mystical thread that was woven by the 
Lady of Shalott — was it not well that she could 
not know of the scattered end ? For, happy 
and blithe and certain of good when she went 
from home upon her wedding day, some change 
had come upon the world for her. She and her 
husband traveled where they chose ; made many 
friends ; led a gay life in society — the gayest 
seeming of all — and everything that change and 
scenery and stirring social life could do to bring 
the fulfillment of her wish, was surely spread 
about them; but Minnie Cartwright was not 
happy. 


The Bride's Return . 


283 


She was brighter than before, and much pret- 
tier ; could chat and sing and entertain her 
friends as though her heart were lightest of any. 
She did not betray the change through her 
manner ; it was the fair, rather childlike, care- 
less face, the hardening blue eyes that used to 
sparkle when her lover came, that grew cold 
now in his presence, that told the story of in- 
difference or unhappiness. 

Her husband was the same to all appearances ; 
he was as coolly courteous to her when they 
were among their friends, as indolently thought- 
ful of her comfort when they were — by what 
they termed misfortune — alone together ; he 
was handsome and cultivated, and she was to be 
envied, the ladies said — the gentlemen were 
more silent upon that ; he was, in truth, just 
the same man as before they were married, but 
— she found it out too late ! She had believed 
that he loved her as she loved him ; she found 
that he loved her coolly, rather as though it 
were a matter of course that she should give 
him her full affection, and he, if so it pleased 
him, could be careless of her. 

There was no quarrel ; never any angry words ; 
the truth was too deadly to the woman who had 
all her life been most tenderly cared for and 


284 


Barclay s Daughter. 


showered with affection for words to heal the 
rift ! She had been blinded by what she had 
heard of his honorable character and faultless 
manners; that was all ; she must bear the con- 
sequences. 

And as the months went by Minnie grew to 
live apart from him, never to consult his wishes, 
never to be consulted. Each chose their circle 
of friends and were gay and brilliant and ap- 
parently happy. She was beautiful, brilliant, 
bright ; no more the gentle, confiding girl whom 
Tom Cartwright had married. He was hand- 
some, careless, extravagant ; no change what- 
ever in his manner. 

Their life was brilliant but reckless, and most 
unsatisfactory to a tender conscience. But 
Minnie’s conscience she hushed by repetitions 
of the deception that had come to her in the 
man she married. The truth, forced upon her 
little by little, also crushed her soft heart and it 
grew hard and indifferent to all eyes but those 
of her soul and her God ! She was too proud, 
and he knew that she was too proud to betray 
the truth. 

Everything that she could desire that did not 
interfere with his happiness, was granted her; 
he was lavish with gifts and jewels and flowers 


The Bride's Return. 


2B5 

until her friends murmured of his magnificent 
generosity and evident affection ; careless words 
in praise of her beauty when the mood was upon 
him ; but she had found that his nature was too 
cold, too calculating and selfish ever to respond 
to her wealth of love, and she shut it rebelliously 
down in her heart and locked it there with the 
key of pride, and was the gayest of the gay and 
much sought after and admired — and envied ! 

The six months that had seemed so short on 
that bright day of happiness when she laid aside 
her old life, seemed sometimes, during the weeks 
that passed, almost endless in their going. She 
longed for the old home faces and affection, the 
care and thought that had made her young life 
so happy. But she gave no sign of this. 

She wrote long letters to her bridesmaids as 
she had promised, full of wit and chat and the 
endless nothings dear to a woman’s heart ; she 
was also faithful in her remembrance of her 
home. She was loyal always to her husband in 
word and look. She was absurdly happy, she 
wrote her mother and friends ; absurdly happy ! 
And as they were so enjoying the life of travel 
it was impossible to tell whether or not they 
would return within the six months agreed 
upon. 


286 


Barclay s Daughter. 


But when seven months had gone and spring 
was beautiful upon the earth, then Minnie 
Cartwright wrote to her mother and friends 
that they had torn themselves away from the 
fiiends in the West and were on their way to 
those dearer friends in the East. 

And to those nearest and dearest in the old 
home, this was the longest time of all — waiting 
for the bride’s return ! 

But long or short, it went by as all time goes, 
and Mr. M illard’s handsome house was aglow with 
welcome for the daughter and the son ! They 
would arrive at night, and the tables were laid 
with everything that they remembered the bride 
liked ; the rooms were heaped with flowers ; 
the lawn was bright with colored lamps and lan- 
terns. The bridesmaids were there in waiting, 
at Minnie’s request ; and it was very brilliant — 
the scene waiting the bride’s return ! 

“ But I could wish,” said Harry Millard re- 
gretfully as they were making preparations for 
this welcome, “ that our little Minnie had chosen 
to come first to us quietly ! It is so long since 
she went away and the house has seemed so 
lonely without her ! We could have given her 
the reception afterward.” 

But Mrs. Millard, although the same half re- 


The Bride's Return. 


2 87 


gretful, half fearful wish had been in her mind, 
shrugged her handsome shoulders and told him 
coldly and with a superior air of wisdom in such 
matters, that it was only natural for the happy 
bride to wish to be welcomed, returning, by 
those who had seen her go away. 

Still, she was mentally asking herself over 
and over, like a dull refrain, whether this public 
home-coming were proof of happiness or not? 
But after all there was little time to ask or 
answer, for the time was slipping by and it 
must be seen to that everything was as it should 
be and the guests at ease ; and this involved 
considerable time and tact, and the twilight had 
deepened to the darkness of a starlight, moon- 
less night, the house and piazza and lawn fairly 
aglow with lights and colors ; and conversa- 
tion lagged and a slight stir of subdued excite- 
ment proved that the time was past ! 

And a few minutes later a handsome travel- 
ing carriage turned in under the arched gateway 
festooned with flowers and lamps, and drew up 
at the steps, and Minnie Cartwright, more beau- 
tiful, bright, and altogether more charming, was 
assisted to the ground by her handsome hus- 
band, and was once more in the midst of her 
home and friends, and was given not one mo- 


288 


Barclay's Daughter. 


ment to pause and compare the going away to 
the return of the bride ! 

Was this her wish ? 

And dawn made the lights dim upon the 
lawn before the last guests departed, leaving 
time for only the simplest words of tenderness 
between father and child as Mr. Millard for a mo- 
ment held his daughter in his arms. Mrs. Mil- 
lard merely touched her lips to Minnie’s, saying 
calmly that the time had seemed very long. 
No other words of tenderness passed between 
her daughter and herself save these quiet words 
of salutation. 

Millard was more demonstrative than his 
wife ; perhaps that thin film of cloud about his 
business so constantly haunting him rendered 
him more open in all other dealings ; he was 
certainly less haughty and less thoughtful of what 
others said or thought, than his wife. He was 
proud, but it was a pride softened by humility 
and rendered more charitable by an open-hand- 
ed, generous charity. 

There was no doubt in the minds of any one 
assembled there that night that the reception 
was a magnificent success, and that the bride 
was more beautiful than ever, and certainly 
more gracious. Perhaps travel had improved 


The Bride's Return. 


289 


her manner, and greater dependence upon her- 
self away from home had given strength and a 
dignified tone to her character. In any case, 
the bride had returned, and as a wife was irre- 
proachable. 

Mr. Cartwright was given as warm welcome 
as his wife, and he thoroughly understood how 
to make himself a favorite with every one, 
because this homage and flattery pleased his 
vanity. Certainly, he and his wife were a most 
devoted, delightful couple. One could but envy 
each the good fortune of having won the other. 
So the guests said, gossipping. 

But the dawn, replacing the light of lamps 
and lanterns, showed rather. sadly and ghostly 
the drooping flowers and decorations upon arch 
and pillar. The house looked also sad and 
alone, shut up after the guests had departed 
and the lights put out. Then it was too late for 
more than a few words of loving welcome be- 
tween the daughter and parents and the son-in- 
law. No more even then than simplest sin- 
cerity of gladness at having them at home 
again, and pleasure at returning ; words that 
one might safely say at any time and still retain 
the mask upon the face. All of it small talk, 
with smiles and easy modulation of the voice, all 


290 


Barclay s Daughter. 


still wearing the reception toilettes, pausing in 
the wide hall at the foot of the staircase. 

They breakfasted quietly in the library in 
order to get away from the wreck of the fes- 
tivity, as Mr. Cartwright said, laughing. 
He was in excellent spirits, protesting that 
he should carry Mr. Millard off at once when the 
meal was ended, to have a look at the old home 
city; and Minnie was beautiful and brilliant in 
spite of travel and late hours. 

“ We must give you good luck and happi- 
ness, you and our daughter, Cartwright, in a 
glass all around,” said Mr. Millard as they were 
rising from the table. “You had speeches last 
night and any number of healths and good 
wishes, but this is different — just among our- 
selves, and a trifle more sincere. Fill the 
glasses, Jackson.” 

Jackson obeyed, and the health was drunk 
with laughing words and smiles and the old 
sidelong, laughing glance from Minnie’s eyes 
toward her father, and a nameless cloud seemed 
lifted from the rest of the group and fall unob- 
served upon the shoulders of Mr. Millard. What 
this cloud was he could not define himself, and 
he dared not examine his heart too closely to 
learn the truth. But when the ladies were 


The Bride's Return. 29 1 

gone, Mr. Cartwright filled and emptied another 
glass of the wine. 

“This is excellent stuff, Mr. Millard,” he said 
easily, holding the glass before the light and 
critically examining the contents. “ I’m rather 
fond of good things of all sorts, and the best 
of it is that I never go under. Lots of the 
fellows are upset by half what I drink, and yet 
I never lose my head. I know just how much 
is good for me and stop there ; they’re fools 
who don’t.” 

He nodded and drank the wine lightly, set- 
ting the glass upon the table again ; but this 
subtle, heavy weight descended with the glass 
upon Mr. Millard’s heart, and from under his quiet 
brows he searched the gay face opposite as 
though he dared not believe and yet must know 
if this were safe for Minnie’s happiness. 

“ I suppose you saw a good deal of gay life 
in the West — especially in San Francisco?” he 
ventured presently, quite calmly, but with that 
shadow still upon his face. “ Minnie is much 
improved, I think, Tom.” 

“Yes,” assented Tom easily, with his non- 
chalant air, choosing a cigar from his case as 
they rose from the table, after passing the case 
to Mr. Millard. “ We saw a good bit of life, Mr. 


292 Barclay s Daughter. 

Millard, — gay, careless, captivating life rather. 
Minnie was won to it at once and made quite a 
sensation ; we were going continually ; cordial 
people they are there, and warm-hearted. I had 
letters to the bank and to private parties and we 
had little rest. My wife is certainly improved 
and I am glad that you notice it. It doesn’t 
take long for the world to teach us dignity 
and self-control, and a fine perception of 
the politeness required by all. Minnie was 
rather timid in her pretty manner when she left 
here, Mr. Millard, and it was a taking little way, 
but it doesn’t create happiness in the world.” 

“ I think that that was because we were so 
tender of her, Tom,” said Mr. Millard gravely, no 
hint of lightening in the fallen cloud. “ She 
is our only child and we gave her all our affec- 
tion and all good things so far as we knew. She 
is very dear to us, Tom.” 

“Of course!” said Tom. Fora moment he 
felt a trifle uncomfortable because of Mr. Mil- 
lard’s words and manner, but he was too intensely 
selfish to allow anything to put him out for 
long. “Minnie is a charming woman indeed I 
no one could fail to admire her, Mr. Millard.” 

“And love her!” murmured Mr. Millard 
under his breath. 


The Bride's Return. 


293 


But the young man had gone lazily from the 
room to smoke upon the piazza, and Mr. Mil- 
lard sat alone at the table, his head resting on 
his hand, moodily thinking of what had been 
and still might be. As he sat so, alone, the 
door slowly opened and Minnie entered, dress- 
ed for the street. She started slightly when she 
saw him, but with the old impulsive affection 
she crossed to his side and laid one soft round 
arm across his shoulders, stooping to look into 
his eyes. 

“Dreaming, father?” 

He started also and glanced up at her, draw- 
ing the white hand down from his shoulder to 
clasp it in his, the shadow growing deeper. 

“No, not dreaming,” he answered gravely 
though he smiled, remembering their old happy 
days in that room ; “ only thinking, Minnie.” 

“Pleasant thoughts?” she queried lightly, 
withdrawing her hand and standing beside him 
quite calmly. “ I never think any more now, 
father — I have no time,” she added hastily, 
seeing the swift, keen change in his eyes. “ It 
isn’t fashionable to think nowadays, and better 
be out of the world, you remember, than out 
of the fashion ! ” 

She scarcely knew herself what she was say- 


294 


Barclay s Daughter. 


ing ; she only knew that she must not allow 
him to question her too closely with that ten- 
derness upon his face, for her own peace 
sake. 

Her father arose as she turned to take a glass 
from the table and drew the decanter of wine 
near her, pausing with one hand upon it as her 
father laid his hand upon her arm very gravely 
and tenderly. The grieved expression in his 
eyes was more than she could meet. 

“You are happy, Minnie? An absurd ques- 
tion to ask our pretty bride, but we who love 
you well may go beyond the pale of pride if 
so we may add to happiness. Are you happy, 
little one ? ” 

For an instant an indescribable change struck 
the pretty face above the wine-glass ; then she 
laughed easily, lifting her bright eyes to his. 

“You dear old worrying papa!” she said 
with her old, pretty extravagance of expression. 
“ Do you think that I did not know my heart 
when I had to settle that dreadful question of 
Tom’s? You foolish papa! Of course I am 
happy — the happiest woman in the city, if that 
will please you ! ” 

Very arch and bright she looked, pausing to 
convince him ere she poured the wine ; but he 


The Bride s Return. 


295 

sighed, watching her, startled at the frequent 
use she had made of the wine that morning. 

“Another glass, Minnie?” he queried jest- 
ingly, not to wound her by implied displeasure. 
“ What an inveterate little toper you are get- 
ting to be ! ” 

She laughed, nodding merrily. 

“ Yes ; I learned that in the West, papa. It 
is very refreshing when one is fatigued. Tom 
recommended it for me and I find it answers 
nicely. As I shall have to be very, very busy 
this morning I take a preventative, you see!” 

She lifted the filled glass to her lips and drank 
the contents as though wine were indeed no 
new thing to her. Then she laughed again, 
catching the shadow upon his face. 

“ I believe you don’t like me to take it,” she 
said, her eyes sparkling with the effects of the 
wine. “ Why, you are a foolish papa, I declare ! 
As though you need ever be afraid for your 
daughter ! I am sure mamma used always to 
give it to me when I was tired or hurried, and 
Tom says that there is no danger so long as one 
knows how much is good for one and never 
goes beyond that! Well!” She paused in 
the doorway, brilliant with life and color, aglow 
with the effects of the wine. “ Good-bye, papa. 


296 Barclay s Daughter. 

I really must go. Mamma is waiting at this 
moment ! ” 

She laughed, and threw a kiss to him from 
the tips of her pretty, gloved fingers ; and he 
was once more alone. But the shadow had 
deepened. 

“ My God ! ” he whispered with a gesture of 
despair, turning from the sight of the glass still 
holding the dregs of the wine she drank. “ If 
I have unwittingly committed wrong, will the 
fruit of it fall upon her ? ” 


CHAPTER XIX. 


OTHER SEED-GROWTH. 

With tenderest care and hope and thought, 

Seed sown, can never come to naught. 

— Author . 

To all appearances Minnie Cartwright was 
perfectly careless and certain of no harm, as she 
laughingly replied to the fear in her father’s 
face. Undoubtedly, she had seen a good deal 
of the sorrow that rises from the use and abuse 
of wine and other spirituous liquors since her 
new life began, and ever since she was old 
enough to hold independent thought, she had 
felt that there must be sorrow in the selling of 
liquor, even with her father’s strict conscientious- 
ness regarding it. 

Then, too, standing in the doorway that 
morning, laughing down her father’s fears, there 
rose vividly in her mind the sweet, pale face of 
Anne Barclay, lifted above her endless sewing ! 
She had almost forgotten Anne ; her life had 
been so crowded with events, so utterly new for 

(297) 


298 


Barclay s Daughter. 


the past few months, that there had been no 
room for Barclay’s quiet daughter with her 
Madonna face. But now the old memory 
wakened and faced her — faced her with a strange 
sense of guilt, remembering her recent reckless 
use of the liquor that had darkened the life of 
this other girl — that she knew had darkened her 
life and the life of how many others ? 

The warm, dull red of shame replaced the 
fresh, beautiful color that had tinged her face as 
this memory grew, and she saw distinctly what 
it was that her father feared ; then this new, 
cold pride returned to her and she bit her lip, 
shrugging her graceful shoulders as she turned 
from the room. Was she, Millard’s daughter, 
to place herself upon a footing with Anne 
Barclay ? Was it possible that even the thought 
had suggested itself to her of judging herself 
along with Barclay, a confirmed drunkard ? 

She had never been guilty of intoxication ; 
she had been specially brilliant and witty, per- 
haps, from the use of wine ; a little irresponsible, 
too, at times when the wine was hot in her 
blood ; but there was absolutely nothing to be 
alarmed at. Her mother had always recom- 
mended it ; her husband did the same ; her 
father countenanced the selling of it to a certain 


Other Seed-Growth. 299 

very fine extent, and yet it was only he who 
was so sensitive. Her own sensitiveness had 
been dulled — she realized that with a bitter 
laugh — during these months of absence from 
home. Perhaps this was as well for her and for 
every one having to fight with life. 

So she went away quite gaily with her mother, 
assisted to the carriage and passing light words 
of chit-chat with her husband, who returned to 
his seat upon the piazza and the pleasure of his 
cigar as soon as they were gone. But Anne 
Barclay’s voice and face and manner would not 
be so easily set aside in her roused memory ; 
she was haunted by them all that day and many 
times afterward. 

“ I would give much if I could forget her ! ” 
murmured Minnie Cartwright fretfully to her- 
self that night. “ Perhaps, if I go to see her 
once more, the old memory will fade. I cannot 
endure to be followed by the thought of her as 
though I had done her some harm ! ” 

It was only in this way that she could com- 
pose herself to sleep ; but she slept after coming 
to this conclusion, no wine having passed her 
lips since the scene in the library. But it was 
several days before she could get time to go to 
Anne, with the many duties devolving upon her 


300 Barclay s Daughter. 

through choosing, and furnishing, and arranging 
their new house. They remained at her home 
instead of at the hotel, where they stopped upon 
the day of their arrival but she was careful that 
there should be no opportunity for close ques- 
tioning regarding her happiness ; that first con- 
versation with her father warned her that they 
feared some shadow upon her life, and she was 
exceptionally gay to dispel such thought until 
even they, with their eyes made keen by love, 
were forced to believe that the pretty, young 
wife was perfectly happy. 

But as the passing months brought change to 
Minnie Cartwright, so change came to Anne 
and her friends. All the day after her father’s 
exceptional excess in drinking, Anne was de- 
pressed and very quiet. She made up her mind 
to endure, as patiently as ever, what should 
come; but this determination seemed to bring 
with it a new, deep sadness of manner, and a 
strange, far-away look in the calm eyes. She 
should go to see Dick to-morrow, she said to 
herself ; she would remain at home that day ; 
how could she know of the need there might be 
for her presence there ? Her father was quar- 
relsome sometimes after hard drinking, and she 
would protect his self-respect with those in the 


Other Seed-Growth. 


301 


house, if she could. She must not go away, not 
even for Dick ! 

Nellie Dean came to see her in the early 
afternoon, as had been agreed upon, and her 
bright presence and happy chatter upon count- 
less small subjects, dear only to women’s hearts, 
lightened the room and the heart of the listener 
and cheered Anne as no one else could have 
done. 

Dick was getting on nicely, Nellie assured 
her, glad from the depths of her heart that she 
could so truthfully speak ; Dick was such a 
quaint, dear little fellow, no wonder he won 
Anne’s affection ; he had won their hearts already. 
Her mother was well and sent her love; Jim, 
too, was doing finely in his new position, and 
had improved so much ; she was dreadfully proud 
of him ; didn’t Anne think that she ought to 
be proud of him ? 

And, of course, Anne said that she thought 
that Mr. Dean was very kind and good, a hint 
of warm bright color in her face ; adding that 
Dr. Benton, too, was one of the best and most 
disinterested of people. To which Miss Nellie 
murmured her assent, her bright eyes scrutiniz- 
ing Anne from under their long lashes ; and by 
and by she left Anne, who was at liberty to 


3°2 


Barclay s Daughter. 


again take up the dull thread of her sadder 
thoughts ; but she did not resume it ; this girl’s 
bright call had given them a new current. 
Dick’s fond, foolish words as to the possibility 
of there being intentional meaning in Mr. Dean’s 
gift of flowers, came back to her, and brought 
the color, soft and pink, in her cheeks. 

They were foolish words, she said, and she 
was foolish to even recall them ; but there was 
a subtle sweetness in thinking that some one 
other than Dick thought of her with warmer 
regard than a passing acquaintance, and she was 
not successful in banishing the thought — even 
in the wish to banish it. 

“ I believe that I am growing foolish,” she 
said to herself quite sternly, “ not having Dick 
or his mother to care for, or even Miss Millard 
to run in now and then to argue with me. I 
must be more careful how I allow my thoughts 
to run wild ! ” 

But that evening, pausing at the window to 
look out in the street to search if there were 
any sign of her father ere she drew down the 
shade after lighting the lamp, she saw Jim Dean 
at the corner, just crossing the street, who, 
looking toward her window, saw her there, and 
lifted his hat, a smile upon his face. It was 


Other Seed-Growth. 


303 


out of his way to pass that street ; the color 
rose to her cheeks ; her hand trembled, resting 
lightly on the ledge, but not from the cold, 
though it was very cold. Did he pass that way 
for her? Then she resolutely banished the 
thought as still further foolishness ; closed the 
window and resumed her seat and sewing till 
her father should come, the dread of what his 
condition might be, driving out all other thought. 

And when she heard his step on the stairs, 
she held her breath to listen, fearful of what it 
should foretell ; but it was slow and steady, and 
as he entered the room her heart once more 
lifted with hope. He was perfectly sober and 
there was some new expression upon his face 
that she could not understand. 

“ Anne ! ” he said slowly, but not roughly, 
after a brief silence, during which she deftly set 
the food upon the table, “ I s’pose you’ve been 
to the Deans lately, haven’t you?” 

“ I was there three days ago,” she answered 
gently, hoping so to soften any anger he might 
feel because of her visit there. 

“And you haven’t been there since?” he 
again asked with clumsy intentness, to catch 
her in deception, although never had she de- 
ceived him. 


304 Barclay s Daughter . 

“ No, father; come,” she said softly, “dinner 
is ready now.” 

He was watching her keenly, from under 
his heavy brows. He did not at once reply or 
notice her remark regarding the waiting dinner. 
There was a dull, dazed look upon his face that 
startled Anne when it impressed itself upon her. 

“Are you ill, father?” she questioned half 
timidly, going around to him and laying her 
hand upon his shoulder. 

He shook it off and frowned, but did not — as 
was habitual with him — mutter an oath against 
her. 

“ And you haven’t seen anything of ’em since 
then, Anne — none of ’em?” he added, after a 
moment, roughly enough, but as though much 
depended upon her answer. 

She noticed this and could not comprehend it. 

“ Miss Dean was here this afternoon, father,” 
she replied, hesitating. 

“Oh!” he said. “Yes! And how did she 
say she left master Dick ? Did she tell you 
that he nearly died owing to my harshness with 
him when he was here t’other night ? Or that 
your father would ’a’ had to answer for that, had 
he died?” 

He rose and faced her, questioning her in this 


Other Seed- Growth. 


305 


rough bitterness, his hands clenched upon the 
back of his chair, his eyes meeting hers desper- 
ately as though to learn her thought of him ere 
she could speak. 

She did not shrink from him though her face 
was deadly white and her eyes widened, looking 
into those desperate, daring, imploring eyes of 
his. Some dim wonder was in his heart as to 
whether or not she could now love and care for 
him, and she read it there. 

Laying her hand upon his arm she lifted her 
face more steadily to his and forced a smile 
upon her stiff lips. 

“ Miss Dean said that Dick was doing well,” 
she said steadily ; “ she told me nothing of this 
— I knew nothing of it ; but in any case they 
shall do no harm to my father ! ” 

He faced her, motionless, for a moment, 
marveling at this girl’s radiated face ; then, 
sinking in his chair and throwing out his arms 
upon the table he buried his face upon them, 
and wept as it was terrible to her to hear. But 
looking so into her face he saw the tender face 
of her mother, and all the long-gone, wasted 
years came back upon him, forced back by his 
desperate struggle of the past two days, and 
weakened by the unusual mental strain under 


3oS 


Barclay s Daughter. 


which he had been ; he drew her to him and 
kissed her, and she felt that whatever she had 
endured was royally repaid ! 

So the days and months went by with Anne 
and Dick and the others as they also passed with 
Minnie Cartwright, though they brought about 
vastly different ends ; and at the earliest oppor- 
tunity after her new home was arranged to her 
fastidious taste and entire satisfaction, regard- 
less of cost, young Mrs. Cartwright went to 
call upon Anne. 

She told no one where she was going, for she 
felt that she could not do that ; it should be a 
visit that should quiet her conscience and rested 
with no other. She went very quietly without 
carriage or footman ; she was handsomely but 
plainly dressed and took a street-car and reached 
in a most ordinary fashion the street where 
Anne lived. 

She was remembering rather uneasily the fact 
that she had not even suggested to Anne that 
she should be glad for her to be at the church 
upon her wedding day; not that this was at all 
required of her, but Anne was very different 
from many in her station of life, Mrs. Cart- 
wright said to herself, and it would have shown 
a friendly feeling to have given her at least that 


Other Seed-Growth. 


3°7 


careless invitation. She acknowledged to her- 
self that Anne had not been at all in her 
thoughts at that time, and why she should now 
so strongly and persistently return, she did not 
know. It was very absurd for her to liken her- 
self to Barclay merely because she found that 
the use of wine was beneficial to her; but she 
must go and see for herself again just how much 
misery and sorrow could come from its ex- 
cess. 

“ As though you are a drunkard or ever likely 
to be!” she said to herself in disgust. “I’m 
ashamed of you, Minnie Cartwright ! Pray, 
what would your friends say if they knew — or 
your mother and father?” 

She paused in this resentful speech, remem- 
bering what her father had said that first morn- 
ing in the library. She read his fear in his face 
and it angered her as well as it wakened the 
question in her heart if she were strong enough 
in mental power to know always how much 
was good for her and where the fine line lay 
beyond which was the other horrible road ? 

She was revolving these things in her mind 
as she walked from the car to Anne’s home, 
and was not prepared to be informed, as the 
landlady informed her, that Anne was away at 


308 Barclay s Daughter. 

the Deans and would not return until late that 
night — probably ten or thereabouts. 

“But her father?” she queried curiously, 
wondering if he could be dead. 

“ Oh, her father was to go too after work,” the 
woman replied, and Minnie suddenly decided 
that something remarkable had taken place 
there and she should go at once to Anne wher- 
ever she was and discover. 

It was a cosy little home, she acknowledged, 
this in which Jim Dean lived ; no show about it, 
nothing for mere style, but a home as proved 
by its surroundings. A feeling of resentment 
took possession of her in her unreasonable state 
of dissatisfaction with herself as she realized 
without one word of explanation that if any 
change had come to Anne it was to add to her 
happiness ; not, as in her own case, to learn that 
the world was hollow and false and to be met 
only with a masked face. 

Her belief that good had come to Anne was 
strengthened as Anne rose to meet her after 
having been announced by the servant. Anne, 
and yet not altogether the old Anne ! The 
Anne she left seven months before was pale and 
very quiet ; the slender woman who rose to 
meet her now was quiet too, but it was a grace- 


Other Seed-Growth. 309 

ful calm as though whatever had come to her 
had taught her sweetness and peace ; and the 
old pallid face was softly oval and free from 
care and delicately colored with the glow of 
health. Her gray eyes were shining with pleas- 
ure, mingled with an almost shadowless, mo- 
mentary intensity of penetration in searching 
her visitor’s beautiful face. 

Nellie was in the room with Anne; the old 
Nellie a trifle more womanly ; and Mrs. Dean 
sat at one of the windows sewing upon some 
fancy-work. 

“It is so long since I have seen you, Anne,” 
said Mrs. Cartwright easily, “ that I felt obliged 
to hunt you up. I hope that I have not dis- 
turbed you ! How well you are looking, and 
how is Dick ? ” 

Anne smiled, the old smile only touched by 
this same new happiness that was delightful to 
see ; and by and by her friends left them alone, 
understanding that they might wish to talk of 
the old times without the presence of strangers. 
And then the story of the change in Anne’s life 
was made known to Mrs. Cartwright. 

She listened to it with the deepest interest, 
for it was delightful to listen to Anne’s soft 
voice and watch the flicker of light and shade 


310 Barclay's Daughter. 

upon her face as the light and shade of her life 
was expressed in words. Her father was at 
work j he held a position which was obtained 
for him by Mr. Dean ; he was sober and doing 
well, faithfully fighting the demon that was hid- 
den in the liquor for him ! Anne was proud of 
him ; one could see that in the fine, gentle, 
happy face. His friends were proud of him 
too, she told this other friend. And he and 
Dick — he and Dick had not at one time gotten 
on well together — were the best of friends. 
Dick would do more for her father any day than 
for any one save herself. And they were living 
comfortably in the same little rooms, but with 
many comforts about them ; and as for her, her 
friends and her father would hear nothing of 
her working any longer save about her own 
home. 

What had brought the change about? Mrs. 
Cartwright asked her ; but Anne could not tell ; 
she did not know ; she did not wish to know 
yet ; it was happiness enough to know that it 
was come ! 

It was late when Mrs. Cartwright rose to go, 
so absorbed had she been in listening to this 
story of sorrow changed for joy ; and as she 
rose, young Mr. Dean entered the hall, and not 


Other Seed- Growth. 3 1 1 

knowing of their caller, and hearing Anne’s 
voice in the parlor, he entered with her name 
upon his lips. 

No need indeed to tell Mrs. Cartwright that 
those old flowers meant more than mere friend- 
ship ! No need to utter one word of explana- 
tion, seeing thiseloquent face turned upon Anne. 

She smiled and held out her hand with new, 
sincere warmth in her manner. 

“ Mr. Dean ! ” she said. And then with her 
own color heightened she added sweetly, — 
“You haven’t told me one word, either of you, 
but I know that I may congratulate you ! ” 

And even in the midst of her blushes and 
shy words and the pretty pleasure of this old 
friend, Anne wondered how Minnie knew? 

But presently Mrs. Cartwright declared that 
she must not linger another moment, no matter 
how pleasant it might be to her so to do, and 
asking if Dick were not to return — he was with 
young Dr. Benton on his round of calls — and 
learning that it was always uncertain when he 
would be in at such times, she went away carry- 
ing with her a picture of true, earnest, quiet 
happiness that she could never know though 
she should spend every hour of the day in the 
midst of her gay life striving to find it ! 


3i2 Barclay's Daughter. 

And as Jim Dean and his sister walked with 
Anne and her father to their home that even- 
ing — it was a delightful evening and so the 
walk did not seem to them long — it was re- 
markable that young Dr. Benton should come 
upon them near Anne’s home without so much 
as a murmured excuse for being there, and so 
in his turn walked back with Jim and Miss 
Nellie as though it were not safe for this young 
woman to be out upon the streets with only her 
brother ! But it was very pleasant also to him 
to feel her soft hand upon his arm even if 
she did shyly keep her face hidden from his 
eyes under the rim of her pretty hat. And it 
did not need a very shrewd mind to guess what 
would be the end of all this remarkable watch- 
fulness ! 

It was well for them all — best for Minnie 
Cartwright of them all — that they could not 
pierce the years and see the end of her young, 
promising life, when she lay with the flowers 
from loving hands strewn about her ready for 
her last resting-place ! Or to know that from 
the night she left Anne Barclay in her new 
happiness and with the promise of a long and 
peaceful life before her, she entered once more 


Other Seed- Growth. 3 1 3 

the reckless whirl of fashion and gave herself 
never any time for thought or questioning ; gave 
herself never any rest ; and was — sad to tell — 
so often under the influence of the liquor her 
mother had urged upon her to use as an antidote 
for fatigue, a deadly poison that lurked in the 
glass to wound and kill ! 

She left two children and they were placed 
under the care of the strictest and yet not 
harsh teacher that Mr. Millard could choose for 
them ; their father cared little after the first days 
of mourning were over, although to the world 
he was the perfection of a bereaved man ; and 
Mr. Millard, heart-broken, crushed, stung, too, 
by the venomous serpent that lies at the bottom 
of every wine-cup to rise when the time shall 
come, — Mr. Millard gave up his accursed business 
and lived in a seclusion that shut out all sun- 
light, for the remainder of his life. His home 
was desolate save for the proud woman who, as 
his wife, still upheld the family pride ; but for 
himself he could not show his face among his 
brother men again, knowing that through his 
sin his daughter had sinned ! 

But there was brightness in these years for 
the others ; happiness and hope and love. Dick, 
under the care of his friend, Dr. Benton, grew 


3H 


Barclay s Daughter. 


strong and almost straight in figure as the years 
went by ; and he was studious and eager to 
make of his life the best he could to prove his 
gratitude to the friends who had come about 
him when most he needed them. He was very 
decided in his desire to enter the medical pro- 
fession as soon as he should be old enough, and 
in this, as in his other desires, this young doctor 
stood his friend. 

And much happiness joined with occasional 
sorrow filled these years in their lives and proved 
the difference of the seed sown in the years 
gone by ; and that other bitter seed that had 
destroyed a bright young life and crushed a soul. 
“ As the seed ” — is it not plainly written ? — “ as 
the seed, so shall the harvest be ! ” 

For God moves in nature and nature moves 
in God, and always as the months and seasons 
pass, fruition comes, bad or good, according as 
seed was sown, and as this truth was proved by 
Anne Barclay’s early struggle to overcome self 
and cultivate first and foremost the thought of 
others and a tender judgment of another’s sin ! 


THE END. 


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